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THE LIBRARY OF CHOICE FICTION 


MAUPRAT 



TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY 

Henrietta E. Miller 

% 

'+0 


WITH TEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

LE BLANT 


CHICA 

Laird & Lee Publi 
1891 


r OF CO/VqTS 

cOPYRIGHr 

APR /iv-W 

^sh.mSTO''*' y 


) 


cs* ■ 





Entered according to act of Congress in the year eighteen hundred and 
ninety-one by Laird & Lee in the office of the Librarian 
of Congress at Washington 


INTRODUCTION 


In the most secluded and wooded portion of that 
district on the confines of Marche and Berry, called 
La Varenne, nestles in a ravine a ruined castle, the 
impaired turrets of which one can not discern until 
within a hundred feet of the principal portcullis. 
The venerable trees which surround it and the 
overhanging rocks enshroud it in such perpetual 
darkness that at noonday one can scarcely cross 
the neglected approach without coming in contact 
with the gnarled trunks and rubbish, which obstruct 
the way at every step. 

This somber ravine and gloomy castle are called 
La Roche-Mauprat. 

It is not long since the last of the Mauprats to 
whom this estate fell, had the roofing removed and 
cut down all the timber; then, as if to insult the 
memory of his ancestors, he razed to the ground 
the portal, the north tower, and the surrounding 
walls, and departed with his workmen, shaking the 
dust from his feet and abandoning his property 
to foxes, osprays, and adders. From that time 
when the woodmen and colliers who inhabited the 
scattered huts in the neighborhood, passed during 
5 


6 


INTRODUCTION 


the day along the summit of the ravine, they 
whistled with a defiant air, or muttered a maledic- 
tion; but when the day was drawing in, woodmen 
and colliers passed along hastily and in silence, 
from time to time making the sign of the cross, as 
if to exercise the evil spirits which reigned over 
those ruins. 

I confess that I never passed this ravine at night 
without experiencing a sense of uneasiness; and I 
dare not state upon oath that on certain stormy 
nights I did not put spur to my horse, in order to 
leave it, as quickly as possible, behind me. 

In my childhood even I ranked the name of Mau- 
prat with those of Cartouche and Blue-beard. 

Often at the hunt, when my comrades and I 
stopped to warm ourselves at the lighted embers, 
by which the workmen watched all night, I heard 
that fatal name die away upon their lips at our ap- 
proach. But when they recognized us, and were 
thoroughly convinced that no specter lurked amongst 
us, they told us stories which would make one’s 
hair stand upon end, and which I will refrain 
from communicating to you. 

I do not mean to infer that the narrative which 
I am to relate is precisely pleasant and cheerful. 
I ask your pardon, on the contrary, for sending 
you to-day a story so gloomy; but with the impres- 
sion which it made upon me, is mingled something 


INTRODUCTION 


7 


so comforting, that you will forgive me, I hope for 
the sake of the conclusions. Moreover, this story 
has just been told me; you demand one, the occa- 
sion is favorable to my indolence or my sterility. 

Last week I met Bernard Mauprat, the last of his 
line; he who proved by the demolition of his manor 
the horror with which the memories of his child- 
hood inspired him. This Bernard is one of the most 
respected men in the country; he lives in a pretty 
house near Chateauroux. Being in his vicinity 
with one of my friends who knew him, I expressed 
the desire to see him, and my friend promising me 
a cordial welcome, conducted me to him at once. 

I knew much of the remarkable history of this 
old man, but I had always wished to learn the de- 
tails and above all to receive them from himself. 
It was quite a philosophical problem for me to 
solve, that strange destiny. I therefore observed 
his appearance, his manners, and his home, with 
particular interest. 

Bernard Mauprat was not less than eighty years 
of age, although his robust health, his erect form, 
his steady step, and the absence of all infirmity 
made him appear fifteen or twenty years younger. 
His face would have seemed to me extremely hand- 
some had it not been for an expression of harsh- 
ness which involuntarily called before me the shades 
of his ancestors. I strongly believe he did not 


8 


INTRODUCTION 


resemble them physically. He alone could have 
told us, for neither my friend nor myself ever knew 
any of the Mauprats; but it was that which we re- 
frained particularly from inquiring into. 

It seemed to us that his servants served him with 
exceptional promptitude and precision. However, 
at the slightest sign of delay, he raised his voice, 
frowned, and muttered several impatient words 
which gave wings to the laziest. At first I was 
almost shocked; I thought that style savored some- 
what of the Mauprats. But by the kind, almost 
paternal manner in which he addressed them a 
moment later, and by their zeal, which differed 
from fear, I was very soon reconciled to him. To- 
ward us he was extremely courteous, and expressed 
himself in the choicest terms. Unfortunately, at 
the conclusion of the meal, a door, which had been 
carelessly left open, drew from him an oath so ter- 
rible that my friend and I exchanged glances of sur- 
prise. He noticed our discomfiture. 

“Pardon, gentlemen, ” he said to us; “I see you 
consider me somewhat irritable; I am an old branch, 
yet knotty and rude, happily detached from a sorry 
trunk, and transplanted in good soil. I have had 
much trouble in arriving at the state of mildness 
in which you find me. Alas! I would reproach 
Providence, did I dare, for having meted out to me 
a life as short as that of other mortals. When tQ 


INTRODUCTION 


9 


transform oneself from a wolf to a man, it requires 
a struggle of forty or fifty years, one should live a 
hundred years more to enjoy the victory. But of 
what benefit would that be to me?” he added with 
an accent of sadness. “The fairy who transformed 
me, is no longer here to enjoy her work. Bah! it 
is time to have done!” 

Then, turning toward me and looking at me with 
a strange expression in his glorious black eyes: 

“Young man,” said he, “I know what brought 
you; you are curious as to my history. Come 
nearer the fire, and make yourself comfortable. 
You cannot please me better than by listening to 
me. Still, your friend can tell you that I do not 
speak of myself readily. I too often have to deal 
with blockheads; but I have heard of you, I know 
your character and your profession; you are an 
observer and narrator — that is to say, excuse me — 
curious, and a scribbler.” 

He began to laugh, and I endeavored to smile, 
too, fearing that he was mocking us as I recalled 
the tricks his grandfather amused himself with by 
playing upon the imprudent and curious people who 
came to see him. But he amicably drew his arm 
through mine, and seated me before the fire, near a 
table laden with cups. 

“Do not be offended,” said he to me; “I cannot 
at my age be cured of hereditary sarcasm; mine 


10 


INTRODUCTION 


has, however, no trace of ferocity in it. Seriously, 
I am charmed to receive you, and to confide to you 
the story of my life. A man, as unfortunate as I 
have been, deserves a faithful historian who will 
clear his memory of all reproach. Listen to me, 
then, and drink your coffee.” 

I offered him a cup in silence; he refused it with 
a gesture and a smile which seemed to say: “That 
is very well for your effeminate generation.” 

Then he commenced his recital in these words: 


MAUPRAT 


I 

You do not live very far from La Roche-Mau- 
prat; you have often had occasion to pass by those 
ruins; there is, therefore, no need for me to describe 
them to you. All that I shall say is that the place 
has never been as pleasant as it is at the present 
time. Upon the day when I had the roofing re- 
moved, the sun shone for the first time upon the 
damp walls within which I passed my childhood, 
and the lizards to which I have ceded them are 
much better quartered than was I of yore. They 
can at least see the light of day, and warm their 
cold limbs in the noon-day rays. 

There was a senior and junior branch of the 
Mauprats. I am of the senior branch. My grand- 
father was old Tristan de Mauprat, who squandered 
his fortune, dishonored his name, and was so wicked 
that his memory is regarded with superstition. 
The peasants fancy they have seen his ghost appear 
alternately in the form of a sorcerer and of a white 
hare, which appears to people meditating some evil 

II 


MAUPRAT 


12 

deed. The junior branch was represented, when I 
came into the world, by M. Hubert de Mauprat, 
called the chevalier, because he was a Knight of 
Malta, who was as noble as his cousin was con- 
temptible. The youngest in the family, he had 
taken vows of celibacy; but being left without 
brothers or sisters, he renounced his vows and mar- 
ried the year after my birth. Before he contem- 
plated taking a wife he had, they said, endeavored 
to find in the senior branch an heir worthy of the 
tarnished name, and capable of caring for the fort- 
une which had accumulated in his hands He had 
tried to settle his cousin Tristan’s affairs, and several 
times paid his creditors. But seeing that his kind- 
ness only served to increase his vices, and that in 
place of respect and gratitude, he found secret ha- 
tred and jealousy, he discontinued his favors; and 
notwithstanding his advanced age (he was more 
than sixty), he married in order to have heirs. He 
had one daughter, and there ended his hopes of 
issue, for his wife died shortly afterward. He then 
left the country, and rarely returned to his estates, 
which are six leagues from La Roche-Mauprat. 
He was an intelligent and upright man, for his 
father had educated him in accordance with the 
spirit of his age. He was bold and daring, and 
like his forefathers, proudly bore the chivalrous title 
of Casse-tete. The senior branch had behaved so 


MAUPRAT 


18 


shamefully, or, rather, had retained such habits of 
feudal brigandage, that it had been surnamed Mau- 
prat Coup-jairet (cut-throat). My father, who was 
Tristan’s eldest son, was the only one who married. 
I was his sole issue. Hubert Mauprat, upon learn- 
ing of my birth, asked my parents for me, promis- 
ing, if they would intrust my education entirely to 
him, that he would constitute me his heir. About 
that time my father was killed in an accident on 
the hunting-field, and my grandfather refused the 
knight’s request. Thereupon Hubert married. But 
when, seven years later, his wife died, leaving him 
a daughter, the desire which the nobles of the 
epoch had to perpetuate their name, induced him 
to renew his offer to my mother. I do not know 
how she replied; she fell ill and died. My grand- 
father was with her the last two days she spent in 
this world. 

Pour me out a glass of Spanish wine, for I feel 
cold. It is nothing — it is the effect which these 
remembrances produce, when I begin to unfold 
them. It will soon pass. 

He drank a glass of wine, and we did the same, 
for we too felt chilly as we looked upon his austere 
face and listened to his abrupt tones. He con- 
tinued: 

I was left an orphan at seven years of age. My 
grandfather took from my mother’s house all the 


14 


MAUPRAT 


money and clothes he could carry, then, leaving 
the rest, and saying that he did not wish to have 
any dealings with the officers of the law, he did not 
wait until the corpse was buried, but taking me by 
the collar he swung me up behind him in the saddle, 
saying: 

“Come, my ward, go home with me, and try 
not to cry very much, for I have no patience with 
brats.” 

Indeed, in a few moments he gave me so vigorous 
a lash with his whip that I ceased weeping, and, 
retreating within myself like a tortoise into his shell, 
I made the journey without daring to breathe. 

That night left an indelible imprint upon my 
memory. At midnight we came to an abrupt halt. 
My grandfather seized me, bathed as I was in cold 
perspiration, and tossed me over to a hideous cripple 
who bore me into the house. That was my Uncle 
Jean, and I was at La Roche-Mauprat. My grand- 
father lived there with his eight sons. Civilization 
rapidly advancing toward revolution was wiping 
out, more and more, all organized brigandage; the 
sentiments of social equality were overcoming bar- 
baric customs. In spite of this, my grandfather 
had for a long time held his ground in the country 
without meeting with resistance. But having a 
large family endowed like him, with a fair share of 
vices, he was finally tormented and beset by 


MAUPRAT 


15 


creditors, who were no longer to be intimidated by 
threats, but who themselves threatened to do him 
harm. 

Then Tristan, rallying his people, withdrew to his 
castle, and shut himself in with ten or twelve rus- 
tics, his servants, all poachers or deserters, who, like 
him, had an object in retiring from the world (as he 
termed it) to place themselves behind stout wails 
for safety. 

From that time Mauprat and his children broke 
the civil as they had broken the moral laws. They 
had no difficulty in persuading their followers that 
servitude was about to be re-established, and that 
the refractory would be ill-used. The peasants 
hesitated, listened uneasily to those amongst them 
who advocated independence, and reflected upon it. 

The Mauprats promised to all aid and protection, 
and up to a certain point they kept their word. 
They received and concealed deserters, they helped 
to defraud the state by intimidating tax-collectors. 
It was an easy matter for the Mauprats to pervert 
the lower classes, for they popularized themselves 
by contrast with the other nobles of the province 
who preserved their haughty manners and their 
ancient dignity. My grandfather did not lose an 
opportunity of prejudicing the peasants against his 
cousin, Hubert de Mauprat. While the latter gave 
audiences to his vassals, he seated in an easy-chair, 

Mauprat — 2 


16 


MAUPRAT 


they standing with heads uncovered before him, 
Tristan de Mauprat placed them at his table, and 
drank with them the wine which they brought him, 
until the air rang with their drunken revelry. This 
libertinism achieved the demoralization of the 
masses. It is unnecessary to tell you what bonds 
of infamy were established between master and 
slave; debauchery and bankruptcy were the ex- 
ample and precept of my youth. My companions 
scoffed at justice, they paid their creditors neither 
interest nor capital, they thrashed the officers of 
the law who ventured to serve a summons upon 
them, they shot at the marshal when he came too 
near the turret. In the face of all this, my grand- 
father boasted of his descent and of the prowess of 
his ancestors; he sighed for the times when the 
lords of the manors had in their houses instruments 
of torture, secret cells, and, above all, guns. As 
for us, we only had pitchforks, cudgels, and one 
miserable culverin, which my uncle Jean could 
handle very skillfully. 


MAUPRAT 


17 


II 

It is time, however, that I should tell you some- 
thing of myself, and of the development of my 
mind in the slough in which it pleased Providence 
to plunge me on leaving my cradle. 

I am wrong perhaps to force you to follow me 
through the first years of my life; I might have said 
that l was born with a noble organization, with a 
pure and incorruptible soul. Perhaps there are, 
and perhaps there are not, incorruptible souls. 
Neither you nor anyone else will ever know. It is 
a great question to determine: Are there within us 
invincible tendencies, and does education modify 
or destroy them? I dare not say; I am neither 
metaphysician, psychologist, nor philosopher; but 
I have had a hard life, gentlemen, and were I a 
legislator, I should pluck out the tongue or cut off 
the arm of him who would venture to declare or 
write that the organization of individuals is fatal, 
and that one can no more restrain a man’s char- 
acter than a tiger’s appetite. 

My mother endeavored to instill into my mind 
noble qualities, although I was too young to derive 


18 


MAUPRAT 


much good from her teachings; still, when I was 
taken to La Roche-Mauprat, I was instinctively re- 
pelled by the wickedness around me. 

I thank Heaven from the depths of my heart, 
however, for the ill-treatment heaped upon me, 
and, above all, for the hatred which my uncle Jean 
conceived for me. My misfortune rendered me in- 
different in the face of evil. That Jean was cer- 
tainly the most despicable of his race; since a fall 
from his horse had crippled him, his temper had 
grown more violent, owing to his inability to do 
as much mischief as his companions. Compelled 
to remain at home when the others went on their 
expeditions, for he could not mount a horse, his 
only pleasure was to repel those petty, unsuccess- 
ful assaults in which the marshal occasionally in- 
dulged, as if to ease his conscience. 

Owing to my youth, I was unable to follow my 
uncles to the hunt; so Jean naturally became my 
guardian and instructor, that is to say, my jailor 
and my tormentor. 

I will not go into details, but for almost ten years, 
I suffered cold, hunger, insults, imprisonment, and 
blows, according to the caprice of that monster; 
his hatred of me sprang from the fact that he could 
not deprave me — I was proof against his vile se- 
ductions. You probably think that, brought up 
behind the walls of La Roche-Mauprat, and living 


MAUPRAT 


19 


in a state of perpetual siege, I had the ideas of the 
times of feudal barbarism. That which, beyond 
our walls, was called by other men, assassination, 
pillage, and torture, they taught me to be combat, 
victory, and submission. When my grandfather 
had time to think, he would repeat to me, as a part 
of my education, legends and ballads of chivalry; 
and when I questioned him as to the state of affairs 
at that time, he replied that times had changed 
greatly; that all the French had become traitors 
and felons; that the kings had abandoned the no- 
bility who, in their turn, had in a cowardly man- 
ner renounced their rights, and allowed the people 
to make the laws. 

I listened with surprise, almost with indignation, 
to the description of the epoch in which I lived, 
an epoch to me unaccountable. No books found 
their way into La Roche-Mauprat, except those 
brought from the country fairs by our servants. 

The names only floated in the chaos of my 
ignorance, Charlemagne, Louis XI. and'lLouis XIV. , 
because my grandfather often mentioned them in 
his comments on the disregarded rights of the 
nobility. 

I, in truth, was not quite sure that my grandfather 
had not seen Charlemagne, for he spoke of him 
more frequently than of the others. 

Although I admired my uncle’s bold deeds and 


20 


MAUPRAT 


felt inclined to participate in them, the absence of 
all principles of morality, the affronts offered to 
prisoners, women and children, seemed to me only 
to be explained by their sanguinary appetites. 

If Jean saw me turn pale he would say to me 
with a jeering air: “That is what I shall do to you 
if you disobey.” My blood curdled in my veins, 
my throat contracted and I fled in order not to ce 
echo the cries which reached my ears. 

The women under my uncle’s roof were objects 
of scorn to those about me; but they caused me 
strange uneasiness, for I often gazed covetously, 
at my then age, upon that portion of my uncle’s 
booty, while my heart was divided between a feel- 
ing of contempt and delight. My brain was con- 
fused, and my nerves unstrung, giving a morbid 
tinge to my thoughts. My disposition, too, was on 
a par with the dispositions of my companions, 
though my heart was better disposed, my man- 
ners were not less arrogant, nor my jests in better 
taste. The consequences of one of my youthful 
escapades influenced the rest of my life. 


M /I UP RAT 


21 


III 

On the road to Fromenthal, three leagues from 
Roche-Mauprat, you must have seen, in the heart 
of the woods, an old tower; at the period of which 
I am speaking, the Gazean tower, for such was its 
name, threatened decay; it was the property of 
the state, which had tolerated there, more from 
neglect than kindness, a needy old man, living en- 
tirely alone, and known in the country by the name 
of Patience. 

— “I have heard my nurse’s grandmother speak of 
him,” I replied; “she held him to be a sorcerer.” 

Precisely; and since we have touched upon that 
subject, I may as well tell you what sort of a man 
this Patience was: for I shall more than once have 
occasion to mention him in the course of my story. 

Patience was a rustic philosopher. Nature had en- 
dowed him with great powers; but he had had no 
education, and by a kind of strange fatality, his 
brain had rebelled against the small amount of in- 
struction he was enabled to receive. He had at- 
tended a Carmelite school, but instead of display- 
ing any aptitude, he played truant with more relish 


22 


MAUPRAT 


than did any of his comrades. He was eminently 
contemplative, gentle, and indolent, yet was he 
proud, while he was independent almost to unsocia- 
bleness; religious, but opposed to all rules; some- 
what of a caviler, mistrustful, implacable to hypo- 
crites. For having expressed his opinion once or 
twice to the monks, he was expelled from the 
school. From that time he declared himself openly 
for the priest of Briantes, who was accused of being 
a Jansenist. But the priest succeeded no better 
than the monks in instructing Patience; the young 
peasant, although endowed with Herculean strength 
and a thirst for science, exhibited an aversion for 
all kinds of labor, whether physical or mental. He 
advocated a philosophy to which it was exceedingly 
difficult for the priest to reply. One need not 
work, he said, when one needed no money, and 
one needed no money, if one only had moderate 
•wants. 

Patience was an example of his own philosophy. 
At the age when love stirs the heart, his code of 
morals was rigid; he only drank water, never en- 
tered a tavern, did not know how to dance, and was 
always shy and awkward with women, whom, more- 
over, his quaint character, his stern face, and mock- 
ing manner did not please. 

He had many enemies, and was looked upon by 
many as a sorcerer. When I said that Patience 


MAUPRAT 


23 


lacked education, I did not express myself well. 
He was by nature and principle a stoic; the priest 
did not own the superiority of this uncultivated 
mind, but he was surprised to pass many a winter 
evening at his fireside, without experiencing a feel- 
ing of weariness or fatigue, while the village school- 
master and the prior, although knowing Greek and 
Latin, seemed to him, the one a bore, the other, 
erroneous. He was aware of the purity of Pa- 
tience’s morals, and attributed the ascendency of 
his mind to the power and charm which virtue exer- 
cises and diffuses. 

He humbly excused himself each evening before 
his Maker for not having talked with his pupil 
from a more Christian-like stand-point; he con- 
fessed to his patron saint that his love of science 
and the pleasure he had felt as he found himself 
listened to so religiously, had carried him beyond 
the limits of religious precepts; he often cited pro- 
fane authors; he had even taken dangerous pleas- 
ure in wandering with his listener through the fields 
of past ages, there to gather pagan flowers, which 
the baptismal waters had not sprinkled. 

On his side, Patience loved the priest. He was 
his only friend — his sole bond with society. One 
morning he embraced him in tears and said: 

“I love you alone, in the world; therefore, I do 
not wish you to suffer persecution on my account. 


24 


MAUPRAT 


As, besides you, I love no one, I am going to lead 
the life of primitive man in the forest.” 

The priest in vain sought to change his deter- 
mination. Patience set out, taking with him as 
luggage only the coat upon his back and an abridg- 
ment of the doctrine of Epictetus. The rustic an- 
chorite’s destination was the desert, but beset by 
wolves, he took refuge in a lower room of the Ga- 
zean tower, where with a bed of moss and some tree- 
trunks, he established himself. 

Before bringing my character of Patience upon 
the scene, I must tell you that in the space of thirty 
years, the priest’s mind took another turn. The 
new sun, which rose in the political horizon and 
which overthrew all opinions, melted his, as does 
the first breath of spring the light snow. 

The sight of Patience’s strange, yet poetical life, 
which gave him an inspired air, the romantic turn 
which their mysterious relations took, all seized so 
strongly upon the priest, that in 1770 he was already 
far from Jansenism and sought vainly, among all the 
religious heresies, a loop-hole by which to secure 
himself, before falling into the abyss of philosophy, 
so often opened before him by Patience, so often 
closed in vain by the exorcisms of Roman theology. 


M/4UHRAT 


25 


IV 

It was on a summer’s evening, when returning 
from a bird-catching expedition, upon which several 
of my young peasant-comrades had accompanied 
me, that I passed the Gazean tower for the first 
time. I was about thirteen years old, the tallest 
and strongest of all, and I exercised upon my com- 
panions my seignioral prerogative. 

It was growing dark, and we walked gaily along, 
whistling and imitating the cries of the birds, when 
he who was ahead of us suddenly halted, and, re- 
tracing his steps, declared that he would not take 
the path leading to the Gazean tower, but that 
through the wood. His motion was seconded by 
two others. A third feared we might lose our way 
on quitting the path, and wolves were numerous in 
that district. 

“Go on, rascal!” I cried in a commanding tone, 
giving our guide a push; “follow the path, and do 
not annoy us with your folly.” 

“Oh,” said the boy, “I shall see the sorcerer, 
and I do not wish to have the fever all the year.” 

“Bah!” said another; “he is not unkind to every- 


26 


MAUPRAT 


one; he will not harm children, and, besides, if we 
pass along quietly without addressing him, what do 
you think he will do to us?” 

“Oh! it would be all right,” replied the first 
speaker, “if we were alone. But Monsieur Bernard 
is with us; we are sure to have a spell.” 

“ What do you mean, idiot!” I cried, raising my 
hand. 

“It is not my fault, sir,” replied the boy. 
“This old reprobate does not like gentlemen. He 
has said that he would like to see Monsieur Tristan 
and all his sons hung on the same tree.” 

“He said that? Very well,” I returned; “ad- 
vance and we shall see; he who loves me will fol- 
low me; he who deserts me is a coward.” 

Two of my comrades agreed to accompany me, 
and the others followed their example; but before 
we had taken four steps, they fled through the un- 
derwood, and I proudly continued on my way, sup- 
ported by my two acolytes. 

Little Sylvain, who was in advance, pulled off 
his hat when he perceived Patience in the distance, 
and when we were opposite him, although his head 
was bent, and he seemed not to heed us, the child, 
terror-stricken, said in a faltering voice: 

“Good evening, Master Patience!” 

The sorcerer, aroused from his reverie, started, 
and I saw a sunburnt face, partly covered with a 


MAUPRAT 


27 


heavy gray beard. He was a short man, but broad 
of chest, and built like a gladiator. A feeling of 
hatred possessed me, and, determined to avenge the 
affront offered by him to my name, I put a stone 
in my sling, and without any preliminaries hurled it 
with vigor. At that moment Patience was replying 
thus to the child’s salutation: “Good evening, 
children; God be with you!” when the stone hissed 
past his ear, and struck a tame owl, a pet of Pa- 
tience’s. The owl uttered a shrill cry and fell 
bleeding at the feet of his master, who stood mo- 
tionless with surprise and rage, for several seconds. 
Then, suddenly seizing the palpitating victim 
and coming toward us, he cried, in a voice of 
thunder: 

“Which of you rascals threw that stone?” 

Sylvain, grasped by the sorcerer’s large hand, fell 
upon his knees on the ground, swearing by the Holy 
Virgin and by Saint Solange, the patron of Berry, 
that he was innocent of the bird’s death. 

I was, I avow, strongly tempted to let him get 
out of the scrape as well as he could, and to pene- 
trate the thicket. I had expected to see an old, 
decrepit juggler — not to fall into the hands of a 
robust enemy; but pride restrained me. 

“If it be you,” said Patience to my trembling 
companion, “alas for you, for you are a bad boy, 
and will become a dishonest man! You have 


28 


MAUPRAT 


committed a wicked deed; you have pleased your- 
self by causing pain to an old man, who has never 
wronged you, and you have done it perfidiously, 
in a cowardly manner, by dissimulating and wishing 
him good evening, politely. You are a liar, an in- 
famous wretch! You have robbed me of my only 
companion, my only possession, and you glory in 
my misfortune. May God preserve you, if you are 
going to continue thus!” 

“Oh, Master Patience!” cried the boy, clasping 
his hands; “do not curse me! do not charm me! 
do not make me ill! It was not I! May God de- 
stroy me if it be I!” 

“If it was not you, who was it, then?” asked 
Patience, taking me by the collar of my coat and 
shaking me. 

“Yes, it was I,” I replied haughtily; “and if you 
wish to know my name, it is Bernard Mauprat, 
and learn, too, that the villian who lays hands upon 
a gentleman deserves — death!” 

“Death! You would kill me, Mauprat!” cried 
the old man, petrified with surprise and indig- 
nation. “What right has a brat like you to threaten 
a man of my age with death? Death! Ah! you 
are truly a Mauprat! You hunt men, miserable 
dog! Death! you wolf’s cub; do you know that it 
is you who merit death, not alone for what you 
have just done, but for being the son of your father, 


MAUPRAT 


29 


and the nephew of your uncles! Ah! I am content 
to hold a Mauprat in the hollow of my hand, and to 
know that a knave of a gentleman weighs as much 
as a Christian.” At the same time he lifted me 
from the ground as he would a hare. “Little one,” 
he said to my companoin, “go home, and do not 
fear. Patience never is vexed with his equals, and 
he pardons his brothers, because his brothers are 
ignorant, like him, and know not what they do! 
But a Mauprat, you see, knows how to read and 
write. Go; but no — stay. I wish for once in 
your life to have you see a gentleman receive a flog- 
ging from the hands of a villain ! You shall see it, 
and I beg of you not to forget it, little one, and to 
tell it to your parents.” 

I was pale with rage. I offered a desperate re- 
sistance. Patience with terrible composure fastened 
me to a tree; he had only to touch me with his 
large, heavy hand to bend me like a reed, although 
I was remarkably strong for my age. He hung the 
owl in a branch above my head, and the bird’s 
blood dripping upon me, filled me with horror. In 
vain did I threaten him; in vain did I utter vows of 
vengeance; in vain did my companion fall upon 
his knees, saying in anguish: “Master Patience, 
for God’s sake — for your own — do him no harm! 
The Mauprats will kill you!” 

He laughed and shrugged his shoulders; arming 


30 


MAUPRAT 


himself with a branch of holly he flogged me, I 
must own, in a manner more humiliating than cruel, 
for scarcely had he drawn blood when he stopped, 
threw away his rod, and I noticed a sudden altera- 
tion in his face and voice, as if he repented of his 
severity. 

“Mauprat,” said he to me, crossing his arms on 
his breast and looking fixedly at me; “you have 
been chastised — you have been insulted, my gentle- 
man; I am satisfied. You see that I could have 
prevented you from ever annoying me again; who 
would have thought of searching for a noble youth 
in Patience’s retreat? But you perceive that I do 
not enjoy vengeance, for at the first cry of pain 
that escaped you I ceased. I do not like to cause 
suffering. I am not a Mauprat. It was only right, 
however, that you should yourself experience what 
it is to be the victim. Good evening; go your way, 
I no longer want you; justice has been done. ,, 

He took up his dead pet and looked at it sadly. 

“A peasant’s child would not have done this,” 
said he. “This was a gentleman' s caprice.” Then 
entering his door he uttered the word which escaped 
him on solemn occasions, and which had given him 
the name he bore: “Patience, Patience!” 

According to popular superstition, this was a 
cabalistic formula in his mouth, and every time that 
he had been heard to pronounce it some misfortune 


MAUPRAT 


31 


had come to the person who had offended him. 
Sylvain crossed himself; he was in such haste to 
fly that he almost forgot to set me free. When he 
had done so: 

-“The sign of the cross!” cried he, “for God’s 
sake! the sign of the cross! If you do not make 
the sign you will be bewitched; we shall be de- 
voured by the wolves on the way home.” 

“Idiot,” said I; “listen: if you ever speak of 
what happened this evening, I will strangle you.” 

“Alas, sir! what shall I do?” replied he with a 
mixture of simplicity and malice. “The sorcerer 
has commanded me to tell my parents.” 

I raised my arm to strike him, but my strength 
failed me. Choked with rage, I almost fainted, and 
Sylvain took advantage of my condition to make 
good his escape. When I came to my senses I was 
alone, two leagues from Roche-Mauprat. It was 
morning when I reached home; my absence had 
not been discovered. 


Mauprat — J 


32 


MAUPRAT 


V 

I had vowed vengeance against Patience in my 
anger at the indignity put upon me; at a word 
from me all the Mauprats would have mounted 
their steeds ready to maltreat the recluse. But I 
felt an unconquerable repugnance to inciting eight 
men against one. I was restrained by an instinct of 
loyalty for which I could not account. Patience’s 
words had, perhaps, unknown to me, awakened 
within me a sense of justice; however that may 
have been, I maintained silence. I contented my- 
self with thrashing Sylvain, in order to punish him 
for having finally deserted me, and to force him to 
keep secret my misadventure. One day when we 
were snaring larks, my page came toward me cry- 
ing: 

“I see the wolf-catcher with the mole-catcher !” 

That announcement made me shudder. Then I 
felt a reaction, and walked straight on to meet my 
sorcerer, somewhat reassured, perhaps, by the 
presence of his companion, who was a frequent 
visitor at Roche-Mauprat, and who, I thought, 


MAUPRAT 


33 


would treat me respectfully, and render me assist- 
ance if necessary. 

Marcasse, called the mole-catcher, made his pro- 
fession that of clearing the houses and fields of the 
country of martens, weasels, rats, and other ob- 
noxious animals. He did not limit the benefits of 
his industry to Berry; every year he made the cir- 
cuit of Marche, Nivernais, Limousin and Saintonge. 
As regularly as the earth revolved upon its axis he 
reappeared at certain times in the same places he 
had visited the preceding year, always accompanied 
by the same dog and the same long sword. This 
personage was as odd in his way as the sorcerer 
was in his. He was a choleric, melancholy man, 
tall, thin, angular, very slow, and majestic in his 
manners. He disliked conversation so much that 
he answered all questions in monosyllables. The 
attraction he seemed to have for Patience gave rise 
to the report that there was sorcery beneath his 
mysterious air and that it was not owing to his dog 
and sword alone that the moles and weasels disap- 
peared. When I saw that trusty friend, I thought I 
might brave the sorcerer, and approached him 
boldly, addressing some remark to Marcasse. 
Patience, gently pushing aside the mole-catcher, 
placed his heavy hand on my head and said qui- 
etly: 

“You have grown, my fine sir ! 


34 


MAUPRAT 


The color rushed to my face, and, drawing back 
disdainfully, I said to him: 

“Beware, clown! You should remember that if 
you still have two ears, you owe them to my kind- 
ness!” 

“My two ears!” said Patience, laughing bitterly. 
Then he added: “Patience, Patience; the time is 
perhaps not far distant when the clowns will not cut 
off the nobles’ ears, but their heads.” 

“Be silent, Master Patience,” said the mole- 
catcher in a solemn tone; “you do not speak like a 
philosopher.” 

“You are right,” replied the sorcerer; “indeed, I 
do not know why I am quarreling with this little 
lad; he might have had me killed by his uncles, for 
I floggedhim last summer fora trick he played me; 
and I do not know what has come over the family, 
but the Mauprats have never, to my knowledge, let 
slip an opportunity to harm a fellow-creature.” 

“You must know, peasant,” said I to him, “that 
a noble revenges himself nobly; I did not wish to 
have my injuries avenged by people stronger than 
you. But wait two years, and I promise to hang 
you with my own hand to a tree which stands be- 
fore the Gazean tower. If I do not carry out my 
threat, I shall be no gentleman; if I spare you, may 
I be called a wolf -catcher.” 

At first Patience smiled; then, suddenly becom- 


MAUPRAT 


35 


ing serious, he fixed upon me the profound look 
which rendered his face so remarkable, and turning 
to the rat-catcher he said: 

“It is singular, there is something in this blood; 
the most wicked are noble; and we are told that 
we are born to obey them — Patience!” 

For a moment he was silent; then he awoke from 
his reverie, to say to me in a jeering, but not ill- 
natured tone: 

“You wish to hang me, sir stripling! Then eat 
a great deal of porridge, for you are not tall enough 
to reach the branch that will bear me.” 

“Ill said, ill said,” said the mole-catcher gravely: 
“come, peace, Master Bernard; pardon for Pa- 
tience; he is an old man — a fool.” 

“No, no,” said Patience; “I want him to hang 
me; he is right — he owes it to me. But do not 
make too much haste to grow, sir, for I am aging 
fast; and, since you are so gallant, you would not 
wish to attack a man who could not defend himself.” 

“You took advantage of your strength with me!” 
I cried; “did you not treat me with violence? 
Speak — was it not cowardly?” 

He made a gesture of surprise. 

“Oh, those children, those children!” said he, 
“how they reason! Truth comes from their lips!” 

And he walked away, talking to himself as was 
his custom. 


MAUPRAT 


3 « 


Marcasse doffed his hat to me and said r in an 
impassive tone: “He is wrong; peace, pardon, 
peace.” 

They disappeared, and there ceased my relations 
with Patience. They were not renewed until some 
time afterward. 


MAUPRAT 


37 


VI 

I was fifteen when my grandfather died. After his 
death, his children, left without any disciplinarian, 
became greater drunkards and debauchees than they 
had been. The country round about had been 
abandoned in consequence of their violence. They 
went from bad to worse, from brigands to pick- 
pockets. They would have driven me away had 
they not feared that I might become a dangerous 
enemy. A sense ot nonor alone detained me at 
Roche-Mauprat. It was evident that a storm was 
gathering over our heads. The peasants were be- 
coming rebellious, for the doctrines of independence 
had crept in among them. It was necessary to fly 
or pass through a decisive crisis. Some counseled 
the first course, others persisted in following their 
father’s advice and burying themselves beneath the 
ruins of the keep. They looked upon capitulation 
or flight as cowardly; the fear'of incurring a like 
reproach and an instinctive love of danger restrained 
me; but the dislike to so odious a life slumbered 
within me, ready to burst forth violently. 

One evening after supper, we were seated around 


38 


MAH PRAT 


the table drinking and talking. My uncles had 
taunted me considerably during the meal about 
what they called my virtue . Having drunk quite 
freely I became incensed and boasted of being 
bolder with and more pleasing to the women whom 
they brought to Roche-Mauprat than they. This 
defiance was received with roars of laughter. Sud- 
denly a horn sounded at the portcullis. Silence 
ensued. It was the fanfare which the Mauprats 
employed to make themselves known. It was my 
uncle Laurent, who had been absent all day and 
who demanded admittance. 

Jean rose; but he halted to listen to a second 
fanfare which announced that he had brought a cap- 
tive. In a trice all the Mauprats were at the port- 
cullis with their torches; I alone remained behind, 
somewhat confused by the wine I had taken. 

“If it be a woman,” cried Antoine, on leaving the 
room, “I promise you she shall be awarded you, 
valiant young man, and we shall see if your 
audacity is on a par with your pretensions.” 

I rested my elbows on the table plunged in a 
stupid uneasiness. When the door opened again, 
a woman entered. It required an effort on my part 
to comprehend what one of the Mauprats whis- 
pered in my ear. 

In the midst of a wolf-hunt, in which several o£ 
the neighboring lords with their wives were partici- 


MAUPRAT 


39 


pating, this ’young lady’s horse had taken fright 
and run away with her; when the horse was 
quieted she was a league away from her party, and, 
not knowing the country of La Varenne, she wan- 
dered farther and farther away, the storm and the 
darkness adding to her perplexity. Laurent, meet- 
ing her, offered to conduct her to the castle of 
Rochemaure, which was indeed more than six 
leagues distant, but which he represented as very 
near and of which he pretended to be the game- 
keeper. 

The lady accepted his offer; she had never 
seen a Mauprat and did not dream of being so near 
their den; she had, therefore, followed her guide, 
without mistrust, and entered the hall of our orgies 
without the least suspicion of the trap into which 
she had fallen. 

When I rubbed my heavy eyes, and looked 
upon that woman, so young and beautiful, so frank, 
so honest, I thought I saw a vision. I almost be- 
lieved that Morgana or Urganda had come to de- 
mand justice, and I had a mind to fall upon my 
knees and protest my innocence. 

Antoine, to whom Laurent had rapidly made an ex- 
planation, approached her with as much politeness 
as he was capable of, begging her to excuse his hunt- 
ing costume, and the dress of his friends. They 
were all nephews of the mistress of Rochemaure, 


40 


MAUPRAT 


and they were awaiting their dinner until the lady, 
who was very pious, came from the chapel where 
she was in conference with her almoner. The air 
of confidence with which the unknown listened to 
this absurd fabrication made my heart contract, 
but I could not account for the sensation. 

“I do not wish,” said she to my uncle Jean, who 
listened to her with the air of a satyr, “to incon- 
venience this lady; moreover, I am very uneasy at 
causing my father and my friends so much anxiety 
and cannot remain here. I beg of you to have me 
brought a fresh horse and a guide, in order chat I 
may return to the place where I presume they are 
awaiting me.” 

“Madame,” responded Jean, “it is impossible for 
you to set out in such weather. Ten of our people, 
well-mounted and armed, are going in ten different 
directions to scour all the points of La Varenne; 
it is, therefore, probable that in two or three hours 
your parents will have news of you, and that they 
will soon arrive here, where you are well sheltered. 
So make yourself easy and take some cordial to 
restore you, for you are wet and fatigued.” 

“Notwithstanding my uneasiness, I am famished,” 
she replied with a smile, “I will try to eat something, 
but do not trouble yourself for me; you have already 
been too kind.” She approached the table and 
took some fruit. I turned and stared impudently 


MAUPRAT 


41 


at her; she regarded me haughtily. I could see, 
however, that although she made an effort to appear 
calm and to respond with confidence to the hos- 
pitality offered her, she was much disconcerted by 
the unexpected presence of so many strange men, 
ill-looking and coarsely clad; yet she was not sus- 
picious. 

I heard one of my uncles whisper to Jean: “All 
goes well; she is caught.” 

“One instant,” replied Jean; “the affair is serious; 
I am going to hold a council; you will be called to 
give your opinion, but keep watch a little of Ber- 
nard.” 

“What is the matter?” I asked, brusquely; “does 
not the girl belong to me? Did you not swear to 
me?” # 

“Ah, that is true,” said Antoine, approaching us, 
while the others surrounded the lady. “Listen, 
Bernard; I will keep my word on one condition: 
that you do not tell the damsel that she is not at 
Rochemaure.” 

“But now,” said Jean, a l have something to say.” 
When the men left the room, I thought Jean tried 
to induce Antoine to remain to watch me, but he 
persisted in following the others. I was left alone 
with the stranger. For a moment I was stunned, 
confused, more embarassed than pleased at the 
tete-a-tete. In my condition I made a mistake in 


42 


MAUPRAT 


supposing: Firstly , that that well-dressed lady was 
one of the Bohemians I had occasionally seen at 
the fairs; secondly , that Laurent, having met her 
on the way, had brought her along to amuse the 
company; thirdly , that they had confided to her 
my state of boastful intoxication, and that they 
had brought her to put my gallantry to the test, 
while they watched me through the key-hole. 

I rushed to the door and bolted it; then I turned 
toward the lady; she was seated at the hearth, occu- 
pied in drying her wet garments, and had not seen 
my action. The strange expression on my face 
made her start when I approached her. To begin 
with I was determined to embrace her, but when 
she raised her eyes to mine that familiarity was out 
of the question. I merely said to her: “My faith, 
Mademoiselle, you are charming, as sure as my 
name is Bernard Mauprat!” 

“Bernard Mauprat!” she exclaimed, rising, “you 
are Bernard Mauprat? In that case alter your 
tone and remember to whom you are speaking; 
have they not told you?” 

“They have not told me, but I divine it,” I replied 
with a sneer. 

“If you divine it, how is it possible that you 
address me as you have done? Still I have been 
told that you were uncouth, and for that reason I 
was anxious to see you.” 


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MAH PRAT 


43 


“Indeed,” I sneered. “Come, give me a kiss, 
my pretty one, and you shall find out if I am as 
ill-bred as my uncles to whom you listened so 
politely just now.” 

“Your uncles!” she cried, seizing her chair and 
placing it between us as by an instinct of defense; 
“Oh! my God! I am not at Mme. de Rochemaure’s 
then!” 

“The name begins the same and our Roche is as 
good as hers!” 

“Roche-Mauprat!” she murmured, trembling 
from head to foot. Her very lips turned pale; her 
features expressed anguish. 

I asked myself: “Is she not playing a part? 
If the Mauprats are not listening will she not 
repeat to them what has taken place, word for 
word? Still she trembles like an aspen leaf. Is 
she an actress?” I was in great perplexity. I 
turned my wild eyes first on her, then on the doors 
which I expected would open every moment to admit 
my uncles. 

That woman was as lovely as the dawn; she was 
tall, poetic, and remarkable for the grace of her 
movements; she was pale, with black eyes and 
locks of ebony hue; her eyes and her smile had an 
expression of delicacy and refinement. Nothing 
had ever caused her suffering, nothing had ever 
taught her mistrust This was the first trial of her 


44 


MAUPRAT 


life. She was my cousin, Edmee de Mauprat, 
daughter of M. Hubert, my uncle, the knight. This 
meeting was our first; she whom I should have 
protected at the peril of my life stood before me, 
trembling like a victim before the executioner. 
She made one great effort: approaching me, she 
stated her name, and added: 

“It is impossible that you can be a villain like 
those brigands I have just seen: you are young 
— your mother was wise and good. My father 
wished to educate and adopt you; even to this day 
he regrets that he cannot rescue you from the 
abyss into which you are plunged. Have you not 
received several messages from him? Bernard, 
you are my near relative; think of the ties of blood! 
Why do you insult me? Will they kill me here, 
or will they torture me? Why did they deceive me 
by telling me I was at Rochemaure? Why did they 
withdraw so mysteriously? What do they propose 
to do?” 

A shot was heard without. Mile, de Mauprat 
sank into her chair. I stood by, undecided, not 
knowing but that it was another scene of the comedy 
prepared for me. 

“Come,” said I at length, drawing near the lady; 
“confess that this is a joke. You are not Mile, de 
Mauprat, you only wish to discover if I am capable 
of making love.” 


M A UP RAT 


45 


“I swear by the Lord,” she replied, clasping my 
hands with her cold fingers, “that I am Edmee, 
your relation, your prisoner, your friend, for I have 
always been interested in you, I have always be- 
sought my father not to abandon you. But listen, 
Bernard, they are shooting! Doubtless my father 
has come in search of me and they will kill him! 
Ah,” she cried, falling upon her knees, “prevent 
them, Bernard! Tell your uncles to respect my 
father, the best of men! Tell them that if they 
hate us, if they wish to spill blood, to kill me!” 

Some one without called me loudly. “Where is 
the poltroon? Where is that miserable fellow?” 
cried my uncle Laurent. They shook the door; 
I had fastened it so that it resisted all their efforts. 
“The wretched dastard amuses himself by making 
love while we are being killed! Bernard, the mar- 
shal is attacking us; your uncle Louis will be mur- 
dered. Come, for God’s sake, come, Bernard!” 

“What the deuce ails you?” I cried. “I am not 
so foolish as you think me. I have sworn that I 
will have this lady and I shall not give her up until 
it pleases me.” 

Frightful yells were heard. Laurent left the door 
and ran in the direction of the noise. I advanced 
to the door. I could not resist the desire to see 
what the confusion was about. 

“Oh, Bernard! Oh, M. de Mauprat!” exclaimed 


46 


MAUPRAT 


Edmee, following me, “let me go with you, I will 
throw myself at your uncles’ feet, I will put an end 
to this combat, I will give them all I possess, my 
life if they desire it, so that my father may be 
spared.” 

“Wait,” said I, turning to her, “I do not know 
but they may be mocking me. I believe that my 
uncles are behind the door and that while our ser- 
vants are shooting they are ridiculing me. If that 
is not so, if you are indeed Edmee, and if I promise 
to intercede between your father and those who 
wish to kill him, what will you promise me?” 

“If you save my father,” she cried, “I swear that 
I will marry you.” 

“Indeed,” said I, and emboldened by her enthusi- 
asm, the sublimity of which I did not comprehend, 
I kissed her icy cheek; she permitted me to embrace 
her and offered no resistance. Mechanically she 
followed me. I gently pushed her aside and securely 
locked the door. I put the key in my girdle and 
proceeded toward the ramparts armed with my gun. 
The confusion was owing to an attack by the mar- 
shal, and had no connection with Mile, de Mauprat. 
The struggle bode fair to become serious; hostili- 
ties were several times suspended and resumed. 

My uncle Louis was seriously wounded. In the 
midst of the fray their fair captive was forgotten 
save by the wily Jean, who tore himself away from 


MAUPRAT 


47 


his beloved culverine and glided into the darkness. 

A feeling of indescribable jealousy took posses- 
sion of me. I threw aside my gun and followed 
him, dagger in hand, ready to stab him if he touched 
her whom I considered my especial booty. I saw 
him approach the door, attempt to open it, and then 
look carefully through the key-hole to assure 
himself that his prey had not escaped. The shoot- 
ing recommenced. He turned with surprising agility 
and ran toward the ramparts. Concealed in the 
darkness I allowed him to pass, but did not follow 
him. I was frantic with jealousy. The sight of 
blood, the noise, the danger, and many swallows of 
brandy had excited my brain. I took the key out 
of my belt, and, when I reappeared before my cap- 
tive, I was no longer the novice she had succeeded 
in moving; I was the fierce brigand of Roche- 
Mauprat, a hundred times more dangerous. She 
ran to meet me impetuously. I opened my arms 
to receive her; instead of taking fright, she rushed 
into them, crying: “Well, my father?” 

“Your father,” said I embracing her, “is not here. 
Do not worry about him; it was merely an 
attack by the marshal; as usual we were victorious. 
What do I care for the officers of the law! Let us 
live in peace and welcome love!” Uttering these 
words I raised to my lips a jug of wine which stood 
on the table; she took it from my hand with an air 

Mauprat — 4 


48 


MAUPRAT 


of authority: “Do not drink any more,” said she; 
“is what you told me true?” 

“It is true; I swear it by your rosy lips,” I replied, 
attempting to embrace her. But she drew back in 
terror. 

“Oh, my God!” cried she, “he is intoxicated! 
Bernard, Bernard, remember your promise; you 
know that I am your relative, your sister.” 

“You shall be either my sweetheart or my wife,” 
I interrupted. 

“You are a shameless fellow!” she answered, repel- 
ling me with her whip. “What have you done 
that I should be such to you? Have you assisted 
my father?” 

“I would have done so had he been there, there- 
fore it is just the same! Do you know if I had 
made the attempt and failed there would not have 
been at Roche-Mauprat torture cruel and slow 
enough to punish me for such treason? But I value 
your good will, my beauty, and would risk anything 
for you! Come, love me at once, or, by my faith, I 
will rush to the ramparts, and if I am killed so much 
the worse for you; you will no longer have a pro- 
tector, but in his place seven Mauprats for lovers!” 

This speech startled her; she rushed to the win- 
dow and tried to open it, but her efforts were fruit- 
less. I laughed at her vain attempts. For a 
moment she clasped her hands and stood there 


MAUPRAT 


49 


motionless, then suddenly her expression changed; 
she seemed to have formed a resolution; she ad- 
vanced toward me with a smiling face and out- 
stretched hands. Her rare beauty affected me 
strangely; I fell upon my knees before her. She 
took my head between her dainty hands, crying: 

“Ah, I knew you were not one of those repro- 
bates; you will save me! Quickly, let us fly! 
Shall we leap from the window?” 

“What are you saying,” I replied, rising; “do you 
not know where you are? Do you think me a 
child?”, 

“I know that I am at Roche-Mauprat, and that I 
shall be maltreated or murdered in two hours if I 
do not succeed in arousing your pity! But I shall 
succeed,” she cried, falling in turn upon her knees, 
“you are not one of this band! You are too young 
to be a monster like them! You seem compassion- 
ate; you will help me to escape, will you not, dear 
heart?” And she pressed ardent kisses upon my 
hands. I did not hear her words; I was consumed 
by a violent passion. 

“I see that you are frightened,” I said to her. 
“You are wrong to fear me; I would certainly not 
harm you; you are too pretty for me to dream of 
anything but caressing you.” 

“Yes; but your uncles will murder me,” she cried. 
“Is it possible that you would allow them to kill 


50 


MAUPRAT 


me? Since I find favor in your eyes, save me, 
then I will love you.” 

“Oh, yes, then \ ” I repeated with a mistrustful 
air, “after you have had me hung by the king’s sol- 
diers. Come, prove that you love me now\ 1 will 
save you afterward .” She showed no anger at my 
persecutions, but withstood me with gentle words. 
At length, as to all her entreaties I made the same 
reply, “Do you love me or are you deceiving me?” 
she saw with what a brute she had to deal and turn- 
ing toward me she threw her arms about my neck, 
hid her face on my bosom and suffered me to kiss 
her hair. Then pushing me gently from her, she 
said: “Do you not see that I love you, that I have 
fancied you from the first?” 

“Yes,” I answered obstinatery, you have said to 
yourself: ‘Here is a fool whom I can convince of 
anything; he will believe me and I will have him 
hung. ’ There is only one answer that will do if 
you love me.” I took her hands in mine, she could 
not withdraw them. Suddenly her pale face col- 
ored; she smiled and with an air of sweet coquetry, 
she asked: 

“Do you love me?” From that moment the vic- 
tory was hers. I had no longer the power to do as 
I liked. I believe, as I cried for the first time in 
my life, “I love you!” my voice had a humane 
accent. 


MAUPRAT 


51 


“Very well,” she replied, in a caressing tone, “let 
us love one another and escape!” 

“Yes, let us escape!” I made answer; “I loathe 
this house and my uncles. But they will hang me, 
I know.” 

“They will not hang you,” she replied with a 
smile, “for my betrothed is Lieutenant-Gen- 
eral.” 

“Your betrothed!” I exclaimed, “you are going to 
be married?” 

“Why not?” she replied, gazing at me fixedly. 

I turned pale and ground my teeth. “In that 
case,” I began. 

“In that case,” she. repeated, patting me on the 
cheek, “you are jealous; that is singular jealousy 
which desires to possess its mistress at ten o’clock 
and to relinquish her at midnight to seven tipsy 
men.” 

“You are right,” I cried, “let us go! I will de- 
fend you with the last drop of my blood — should I, 
however, succumb to their numbers, I should perish 
knowing that you were theirs. But come!” 

My fair supplicant kissed me effusively. That 
caress, the first bestowed upon me by a woman 
since my childhood, recalled my mother’s last kiss; 
my eyes filled with tears. Observing them the 
young girl kissed them away repeating: “Save me! 
Save me! Let us go, I hear them coming! Oh! 


52 


MM PR AT 


if you will not protect me, kill me at once!” She 
threw herself into my arms. 

I pressed Edmee to my breast and said pas- 
sionately: “You remind me of a turtle dove which, 
followed by a kite, one day fluttered to my bosom!” 

“And you did not deliver it up to the kite, did 
you?” asked Edmee. 

“No, nor will I deliver you up, most beautiful of 
women, to the miserable night-hawks who menace 
you.” 

“But how shall we escape?” she asked. 

“Easily,” said I, “follow me.” I took a torch and, 
raising a trap-door, we descended into a cellar 
through which we reached a subterranean passage. 
When we came to the exit, I extinguished the light 
and leaning against the door said to the trembling 
maiden: “You shall not pass out of this place until 
you promise to be mine. Will you swear by the 
Gospel, by the name of Christ, by your hope of 
salvation, by your mother’s soul?” 

She repeated those words, solemnly adding: 
“Will you promise me that my vow shall remain a 
secret between us, that my father shall never find 
it out, that no one will repeat it to him?” 

“No one on this earth. What do I care to nave 
it known if it be only so!” She administered to me 
the formula of an oath and we passed on, hand 
clasped in hand in token of mutual faith. Our 


MAUPRAT 


53 


journey was perilous; there was as much danger 
from the besiegers as the besieged. 

In the darkness I had the misfortune to fall; in 
vain did I urge Edmee to continue her way without 
me. 

“Whatever happens, I will not leave you,” she 
cried; “you are dedicated to me and I to you; we 
will both be saved or die together.” 

“If I am not mistaken,” I cried, “I see a light 
through those branches. It is a dwelling.” I 
dragged myself to the door and knocked. 

“Who is there?” cried some one from within. 

“We are saved,” cried Edmee, “it is the voice of 
Patience!” 

“We are lost,” cried I, “we are mortal enemies.” 

“Fear nothing,” she said, “but follow me. God 
has directed us hither.” 

“Yes, it was God who directed you hither, child 
of heaven, star of morning,” said Patience, opening 
the door. 

By the light of a dim lamp and the brushwood 
burning on the hearth we saw with surprise that the 
Gazean tower was honored with unusual company. 
On one side of the fire-place was a man with a pale, 
grave face, his form enveloped in the gown of a 
priest; on the other side sat a lean man in abroad- 
brimmed hat, with a long rapier across his knees 
and a dog as large as a rat beside him. The latter 


54 


MAUPRAT 


was Marcasse, who rose slowly and touched his hat. 
The Jansenist priest did likewise. The little dog 
thrust his head between his master’s legs and mute, 
like him, showed his teeth without barking. 


MAUPRAT 


55 


VII 

Scarcely did the priest recognize Edmee when he 
retreated several paces with an exclamation of sur- 
prise, which was nothing compared to Patience’s 
astonishment when he had examined my face by 
the light of the fire-brand, which served him as a 
torch. 

“The dove in company with the bear’s cub,” he 
cried, “how did that happen?” 

“Friend,” replied Edmee, placing her delicate 
hand within the sorcerer’s coarse one, “welcome 
him as well as me; I was a prisoner at Roche- 
Mauprat and he rescued me.” 

At those words Patience took my arm and led 
me to the fire; he seated me in the only chair and 
the priest examined my limb while Edmee related 
our adventures to a certain point and inquired about 
her father. Patience could not give her any news. 

In the meantime Marcasse, followed by his dog, 
scaled a ladder which served to lead to the upper 
stories of the tower; he descended with the news 
that a red glow was visible on the horizon in the 
direction of Roche-Mauprat. Notwithstanding the 


56 


MAUPRAT 


hatred I entertained for the place and its inhabi- 
tants, I could not help a feeling of consternation on 
learning that, to all appearances, the hereditary 
manor, which bore my name, was taken and in 
flames. I started up and had it not been for a 
violent pain in my foot I should have rushed out. 

“What ails you?” asked Edmee, who was by my 
side in an instant. 

“I must return to Roche-Mauprat,” said I, 
brusquely, “for my duty is to be killed rather than 
to leave my uncles to struggle alone with the peo- 
ple.” 

“The people!” exclaimed Patience, addressing me 
for the first time, “who speaks of the people here? 
I belong to the people and I will have them re- 
spected.” 

“My faith! they shall not be by me,” said I. 

“It would not be the first time,” said Patience, 
with a contemptuous smile. 

“You remind me,” said I, “that we have old 
scores to settle.” And conquering the pain caused 
by my sprained ankle, I again rose. Patience 
stood erect before me, his arms crossed. It was 
evident that, restrained by the principles of hospi- 
tality, he was waiting for me to strike the first blow 
in order to crush me. I should not have let him 
wait long, had not Edmee seized my arm saying 
peremptorily: “Calm yourself, I command you.” 


M A UP RAT 


57 


I seated myself, saying to Patience: “We shall 
meet again.” 

The philosopher’s only reply was a shrug of the 
shoulders. 

Marcasse then in his monosyllabic manner cen- 
sured Patience: “Not at all patient — wrong — yes, 
wrong!” 

“Come,” said Edmee, turning to Patience, “I am 
consumed with anxiety as to my poor father. 
Good Patience, find me some way of rejoining him 
with this unfortunate youth, whom I cannot leave 
to your care since you do not love me sufficiently 
to be patient with and merciful to him.” 

“What do you say?” exclaimed Patience, putting 
his hand to his brow as if awakening from a dream. 
“Yes, you are right. I am a brute, a fool. I ask 
the gentleman’s pardon for the past; and for the 
present, place my humble cell at his disposal; is 
that well said?” 

“Yes,” replied the priest, “all can be arranged. 
My horse is gentle; Mile, de Mauprat can mount 
him; you and Marcasse can lead him, and I will 
remain here with our invalid.” 

When Edmee was seated in the saddle she said 
to the priest: “Monsieur, will you promise me not 
to leave my cousin until I return with my father 
to fetch him?” 

“I promise,” replied he. 


58 


MAUPRAT 


At that moment the mole-catcher’s dog pricked up 
his ears and showed signs of uneasiness. 

“Somebody out there,” said Marcasse, laconically, 
as he courageously advanced sword in hand. Edmee 
slipped from the saddle and instinctively placed her- 
self behind my chair. Patience rushed out of the 
tower to find at the door a man covered with 
wounds from which the blood was streaming. This 
was my uncle Laurent, who had been mortally 
wounded at the siege of Roche-Mauprat; with him 
was his brother Leonard. Patience’s first instinct 
was to place himself on the defensive; but recog- 
nizing Marcasse, the fugitives, instead of showing 
any hostility, asked for shelter and assistance, and 
no one could have refused them the aid of which 
their deplorable situation rendered them in need. 
The marshal was on their track. Roche-Mauprat 
was in flames. Louis and Pierre had been killed; 
Antoine, Jean, and Gaucher had fled. Laurent’s 
last moments were too horrible for description; 
his agony was rapid but frightful. Scarcely had 
the breath left his body when blows resounded 
upon the door. 

“Open in the name of the King!” cried several 
voices; “open to the Marshal!” 

“To the defense!” cried Leonard, raising his knife 
and rushing toward the door. “Peasants, show 
yourselves gentlemen! And you, Bernard, wipe 








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59 


out your disgrace by not permitting a Mauprat to 
fall into the hands of the gendarmes alive!” I was 
about to follow him when Patience seized him and 
with Herculean strength hurled him to the ground 
and placing his knee up on his breast called to 
Marcasse to open the door. Six gendarmes entered. 

“Here, sir,” said Patience, “do not harm anyone, 
but take this prisoner. Had I been alone with him 
I should have defended him or helped him to escape; 
but there are people here who must not suffer 
for a knave like this, and I do not care to expose 
them to the dangers of an encounter. Here is 
the Mauprat whom it is your duty to deliver into 
the hands of justice. The other is dead.” 

“Sir, surrender!” said an officer, laying hold of 
Leonard. 

“Never will a Mauprat degrade his name in a 
court of law,” replied Leonard gravely; “I surren- 
der, but you shall only have my body.” While 
they were preparing to bind him, he said to the 
parson: “One single, one last boon, father. Let 
me drink from your gourd; I am dying of thirst and 
exhaustion.” The good man handed him the gourd 
which he drained at a draught. He seemed van- 
quished, incapable of resistance. But, at the 
moment they were about to bind his feet, he 
snatched a pistol from the belt of one of the gen- 
darmes and blew out his brains. I then became 


GO 


MAUPRAT 


the subject of discussion: One of the officers 
claimed to recognize in me a Mauprat Coup-j arret 
(cut-throat). Patience, however, maintained that 
I was one of M. Hubert de Mauprat’s game-keep--* 
ers, escorting his daughter to her home. I was 
about to tell my name when Edmee glided to my 
side, her face as pale as death, her lips contracted 
by a terror so great that at first she could only ex- 
press herself by signs. The officer, touched by her 
youth, listened deferentially, when she succeeded 
in giving him an explanation. She finally induced 
him not to treat me as a prisoner, but to conduct 
me with her to her father’s castle, where, she 
pledged her word, satisfaction should be given. So 
we set out; Edmee on the officer’s horse, I upon 
the priest’s; the latter and Patience on foot be- 
tween us, the marshal at our rear; Marcasse in 
front, as usual impassive, while two gendarmes 
remained at the tower to guard the corpses. 


MAUPRAT 


61 


VIII 

We penetrated about a league into the forest, halt- 
ing at every branch of the road to call, in case the 
hunting party should be in the vicinity. By the 
way, the gendarmes told us that Roche-Mauprat 
had been taken: that two Mauprats had been killed 
and that five escaped, two of them to die as we 
have just seen. 

Suddenly the sound of horns and the baying of 
dogs announced the approach of a band of hunts- 
men. Edmee, impatient to join her father and ris- 
ing above the terrors of that night of bloodshed, 
spurred on her steed and reached them first. When 
we rode up I saw Edmee in the arms of a tall man 
with a venerable face; his elegant attire and his 
fine Norman horse, held by a groom, led me to be- 
lieve myself in the presence of a prince. The 
caresses he lavished upon Edmee were so new to 
me that perforce I looked upon them as extrava- 
gant and unbecoming, and felt a pang of jealousy, 
for I did not suspect that such a man could be my 
uncle. Edmee spoke in a low tone and eagerly. 
In a few moments the old man advanced toward 


62 


MAUPRAT 


me and greeted me cordially. Then a tall, young 
man with a handsome face and as elegantly attired 
as M. Hubert, approached and pressed my hand, 
addressing to me words of thanks which I did not 
understand. He next turned to the gendarmes and 
I discovered that he was the Lieutenant-General of 
the province, for he required them to permit me to 
follow my uncle to his castle, where he would be 
responsible for me. 

I was surprised to see the knight on friendly 
terms with Patience and Marcasse. As for the 
priest he was on a footing of equality with both 
gentlemen. All that affection of which Edmee was 
the object, that devotion which I could not appre- 
ciate, those cordial and peaceful relations between 
respectful plebeians and kindly patricians, seemed 
to me like a dream. But my brain began to whirl 
when the train was once more in motion; the Lieu- 
tenant-General (M. de la Marche) pushed his horse 
between Edmee’ s and mine, and took his place, 
as if by right, at her side. I remembered that she 
had told me at Roche-Mauprat that he was her 
betrothed. Hate and anger possessed me, and I 
do not know what absurdity I should have been 
guilty of had not Edmee, seeming to divine my 
turbulent feelings, said that she wished to speak 
with me, and regained me my place near her. 


MAUPRAT 


03 


“What have you to say to me?” I asked with 
more eagerness than politeness. 

“Nothing,” she replied in a whisper, “I shall have 
much to say to you later; until then will you do as 

I wish?” 

“And why should I do as you wish, cousin?” 

She hesitated a moment and, making an effort, 
she said: “Because thus it is that one proves to 
women one’s devotion.” 

“Do you think then that I do not love you?” I 
asked abruptly. 

“How do I know that you do?” she said. That 
doubt astonished me very much, and I tried to com- 
bat it in my style. 

“Are you not pretty?” said I, “and am I not a 
young man? Perhaps you think I am a child and 
cannot appreciate beauty in woman. But I am 
now more deeply in love with you than ever! The 
more I look at you, the handsomer I think you. 
Indeed — -” 

“Be silent,” said she, sharply. 

“Oh, you fear that that gentleman will hear me,” 
said I, pointing to M. de la Marche. “Make your- 
self easy; I can keep my word and I hope you will 
keep yours.” 

At that juncture we reached the castle gates; 
Edmee whispered to me: “Promise me that 
you will love my father, that you will listen 

Maufirat — 5 


64 


MAUPRAT 


to his counsel, that you will do nothing without 
consulting him. Promise me that, if you wish me 
to put faith in your friendship!” 

“My friendship!” I repeated. “My love! I 
promise anything that will please you — and you, 
will you not promise me something in return?” 

“What can I promise you that is not yours?” 
she said gravely, “you have saved my honor — my 
life is yours.” 

On dismounting, Edmee sank into her father’s 
arms in a swoon. M. de la Marche assisted M. 
Hubert in carrying his daughter to the hoyse. I 
was conducted to a magnificent room, in which a 
meal, such as I in my barbaric state had never 
dreamed of, was served. A valet stood behind 
my chair, ready to attend to my slightest wish, and 
somewhat blunted the keen edge of my appetite. 
On retiring, finding myself without arms and hearing 
people coming and going around me on tip-toe, I 
was again rendered suspicious, and, taking advantage 
of a moment when I was alone to rise and snatch 
from the table the longest knife I could find, I 
returned to my bed more at ease, and fell asleep 
clutching it tightly. When I awoke I saw a kind 
and venerable face gazing at me through the hang- 
ings, and M. Hubert de Mauprat inquired as to my 
health. I tried to be polite and grateful, but the 
expressions of which I made use were so different 


MAUPRAT 


65 


from his that I felt a sense of embarrassment steal 
over me. To add to my confusion the knife that 
I had taken to bed fell at his feet; he picked it up, 
looked at it and then at me with extreme surprise. 
I colored and stammered I knew not what. I ex- 
pected censure for the insult offered to his hospi- 
tality, but he was too courteous to remark upon it; 
quietly laying the knife on the mantel-piece and 
returning to my side he spoke thus: 

“ Bernard, I know now that you saved the life I 
hold dearest in the world. My gratitude and 
esteem are yours; my daughter also owes you a 
debt; therefore, be not uneasy as to your future. 
I know to what persecution and vengeance you have 
exposed yourself by coming to us, but I know, too, 
from what a horrible life my friendship and devotion 
will save you. You are an orphan; I have no son. 
Will you accept me for your father?” I stared at 
the knight in surprise; I could not trust my ears, 
nor could I reply. The knight himself experienced 
some astonishment; he had not expected to find a 
nature so uncultivated. “Come,” said he, “I hope 
you will feel at home here. Merely give me a 
shake of the hand to prove that you have confidence 
in me. I will send you your servant; ask anything 
of him that you wish, he is yours. I have only 
one promise to exact from you; it is that you will 
not go beyond the park inclosure until I have taken 


66 


MAUPRAT 


measures to render you safe from the pursuit of the 
law. They might reflect upon you the accusations 
of guilt which your uncles’ conduct has incurred.” 

“My uncles!” said I, putting my hand to my head; 
“have I had a bad dream? Where are they? 
What has become of Roche-Mauprat?” 

“Roche-Mauprat has been saved from the flames,” 
he replied; “several of the adjoining buildings were 
destroyed, but I shall undertake to restore your 
home and to buy back your fief from the creditors 
to whom it to-day belongs. With regard to your 
uncles, you are probably the sole heir of a name 
which it behooves you to redeem. Four Mauprats 
died in one night; the fifth, Gaucher, was found 
this morning in the pond; the remaining two they 
have not yet found. If they are still alive, they 
dare not reappear, for there would be no hope for 
them; since they have brought this trouble upon 
their own heads, it is better for them and for us, 
who have the misfortune to bear the same name, 
that they died with arms in their hands rather than 
to suffer ignominious deaths on the gallows. Let 
us pray for them, Bernard, and try by noble deeds 
to remove the blots imprinted by them on our 
escutcheon. This is not the time to recriminate 
against those who at this hour may be standing 
before God’s tribunal; but they have done me an 
irreparable injury; they have broken my heart. 


MAUPRAT 


6 ? 


What wrong they have done you shall be made 
right, I swear to you by your mother’s memory. 
They have deprived you of education, they have 
associated you with their lawlessness, but your soul 
has remained as noble and pure as that of the 
angel who gave you birth. You shall make amends 
for the involuntary errors of your childhood, you 
shall receive an education conformable with your 
rank, and shall retrieve the family honor. Had you 
been intrusted to my care in early youth you would 
have been brought up with my daughter and would 
certainly have become her husband. But Providence 
did not will it so: she has already made her choice 
in M. de la Marche; has she not told you?” The 
caresses and tender words of the honorable old man 
had awakened a new disposition within me; but 
when he uttered the name of his future son-in-law 
all my savage instincts were aroused and I felt that 
no principle of social loyalty could force me to 
renounce my claim upon her whom I considered 
mine. I grew pale, I colored, I choked. We were 
happily interrupted by M. Aubert (the Jansenist) 
who had come to post himself as to the results of 
my fall. When the knight discovered that I was 
hurt, he sent forthwith for his doctor; the atten- 
tion paid me seemed absurd, yet I submitted to it 
from a sense of gratitude. I made so bold as to ask 
the priest for Edmee, He said she had a high fever 


08 


MAUPRAT 


and they feared a serious illness; her strength dur- 
ing her trials had been taxed to its utmost and the 
reaction was violent in comparison. 

I, on my part, was a prisoner, too. I could not 
take a step without the greatest agony, and the 
physician said, if I did not remain quiet a few days, 
I would have to keep my room for months. The 
close confinement, to which I was unaccustomed, 
became insufferable to me at the end of twenty- 
four hours. To no one could I communicate my 
feelings. I was rendered very uncomfortable by the 
politeness paid me from the master of the house to 
the least of his servitors; it was to me a language 
which I understood, but could not speak. I, how- 
ever, found the faculty of retort when the priest, 
having told me that he was to superintend my edu- 
cation, questioned me as to what I knew. My 
ignorance was such that I was ashamed to reveal 
it to him, and my rude pride aroused, I informed him 
that I was a gentleman and had no desire to be 
come a priest. He laughed, tapped me gently 
on the shoulder, and said that in time I would change 
my opinion, but that I was a comical fellow. 

I was purple with rage when the knight entered. 
The abbe repeated to him our conversation. M. 
Hubert suppressed a smile. “ My child,” said he, 
affectionately, “do not let us speak of studies to-day. 
Before conceiving a taste for them you must realize 


MAUPRAT 


69 


their necessity. You have a noble heart; the desire 
for knowledge will come of itself. Let us sup. Are 
you hungry? do you like good wine?” 

“Much better than Latin,” I replied. 

The wine was so excellent that, according to my 
custom at Roche-Mauprat, I soon became tipsy. 

I believe that my uncle and the priest encouraged 
me in order to draw me out; undoubtedly they 
augured well in the main, for they continued in 
their persuasions as to my education with a zeal 
which bespoke hope. The knight’s kindness won 
my heart rapidly; my love for him was on a par 
with my ardent devotion to his daughter. I did 
not think of matching one of those sentiments 
against the other. I combined the passions of a 
man with the mind of a child. 


* 


70 


M A UP RAT 


IX 

Finally, one morning after breakfast, M. Hubert 
led me to his daughter’s room, which was simple 
but charming, while the air was scented by the per- 
fume emitted from flowers, disposed about the de- 
partment in vases. African birds warbled sweetly 
in a gilded cage; the carpets were as soft as moss. 
My sight grew dim, I stumbled awkwardly. 

Edmee was reclining upon a couch, holding, non- 
chalantly, in her hand a mother o’ pearl fan. She 
extended her hand to me; I did not hear her words 
distinctly, but I believe they were affectionate. 
Then, as if overcome by fatigue, she threw back her 
head and closed her eyes. 

“I have work to do,” said the knight to me; 
“keep her company, but do not make her talk too 
much, for she is still very weak.” 

My uncle passed through a door at the end of 
the room and closed it again. I gazed upon Edmee 
as she lay there; she was not like the same Edmee; 
she was so pale, so delicate. The peculiar pleas- 
ure I felt in contemplating her was interrupted by 
the entrance of a person called Mile. Leblanc, who 


MAUPRAT 


71 


fulfilled the functions of waiting-maid in the bed- 
room and of companion in the drawing-room. Per- 
haps she had received orders from her mistress not 
to leave us; at any rate she seated herself near the 
couch, drew her work from her pocket, and calmly 
began to knit. In a short time I noticed that 
Edmee was no longer asleep, but was conversing 
in low tones with her maid who examined me 
stealthily from time to time. To avoid her glances 
I rested my head upon the table as if asleep. Then 
by degrees they raised their voices and I heard 
what they said about me. 

“Mademoiselle has chosen a strange page.” 

“Leblanc, you amuse me with your pages; who 
has pages in these days? I tell you, he is my 
father’s adopted son.” 

“But where did he find the fellow? He looks 
more like a bear, a badger, a wolf, a kite, like 
anything, rather than a man,” continued Leblanc. 
Why since he has been polished up he is nothing to 
what he was with his smock frock and leather gai- 
ters when he came; he was enough to frighten one. 
If his hair was dressed he would look better,” con- 
tinued the duenna, “but Saint-Jean told me that 
when he was about to put on the powder, he rose, 
furiously saying: ‘Anything but that flour! I wish to 
be able to move my head without coughing and 
sneezing!’ Lord, what a savage!” 


72 


MAUPRAT 


“Well, in the main he is right; if Fashion did not 
authorize that absurdity, everyone would look upon 
it as ugly and inconvenient. Is it not much nicer 
to have black hair? Moreover children do not wear 
powder, and this boy is still a child.” 

“He is an ogre! He would eat children for his 
breakfast! But whence comes this fellow? What 
is his name?” 

“Curious woman, I have told you his name is 
Bernard.” 

“Bernard what?” 

“Nothing, at present. What are you looking at?” 

“He sleeps like a dormouse! Look at the num- 
skull! I think he looks like monsieur; perhaps he is 
some relation, perhaps a slip.” 

“Come, Leblanc, you are going too far.” 

“Well, has not monsieur been young like every 
one else?” 

“Undoubtedly; but listen: do not attempt to tease 
the young man; perhaps you have guessed aright; 
my father requires him to be treated as a son of the 
house.” 

“If Mademoiselle is satisfied, what has it to do 
with me?” 

“Ah, if you were thirty years younger!” 

Their conversation was interrupted by the knight 
who entered in search of a book. 

“Mile. Leblanc is here,” he said calmly. X 


MAUPRAT 


73 


thought you were tete-a-tete with my son. Well, 
have you chatted together, Edmee? Have you told 
him that you would be his sister? Are you satisfied 
with her, Bernard?’’ 

My replies could compromise no one. M. de 
Mauprat returned to his study, and I reseated my- 
self, hoping that my cousin would dismiss her 
duenna and talk to me; but my hopes were not 
realized. Edmee seemed to be really asleep. At 
dinner-time her father came for me, and before leav- 
ing her room he said to her again: “Well, have 
you talked?” 

“Yes, dear father,” she replied, with an assurance 
that confounded me. 

At times I was troubled as to her conduct toward 
me while in her room, but hope returned as I re- 
called the tone in which she had spoken of me to 
Mile. Leblanc. I waited in uncertainty; the days 
and nights succeeded one another without any ex- 
planation being offered, or any secret message 
reaching me. When she was in the drawing-room 
she gave me no opportunity to address her. My 
uncle, seeing that I was wearying of the state of 
captivity in which I was forced to live, would say: 
“Go and talk with Edmee; go to her room— tell 
her that I sent you.” But I knocked in vain; the 
door was never opened to me. I was desperate — 
furious. 


MAUPRAT 


It is necessary that I should interrupt this recital 
to tell you what was taking place at this time in the 
Mauprat family. 

Jean and Antoine had fled; although they were 
pursued, it was impossible to obtain possession of 
their persons. All their goods were seized, and the 
sale of the fief of Roche-Mauprat was ordered by 
law. But the sale did not take place. M. Hubert 
de Mauprat stopped the suit; the creditors were sat- 
isfied, and the titles to the property passed into his 
hands. 

The day upon which M. Hubert made the pur- 
chase, he entered my room, accompanied by his 
daughter and the priest, and showing me the papers, 
informed me that I should be put in possession at 
once, not only of my part of the inheritance, but 
of the greater part of the income. At the same 
time, the entire estate would be assessed to me by 
the Knight’s will, on one condition: that I would 
consent to receive an education suitable to my 
station; my uncle was not prepared for resist- 
ance on my part. 

“ Uncle,” I replied, after having listened in abso- 
lute silence, “I thank you for your kindness, but I 
cannot accept it. I do not want fortune; to a man 
such as I am, bread only is necessary. A gentle- 
man knows enough if he can fell a teal and sign 
his name. I do not long to be Lord of Roche-Mau- 


MAUPRAT 


75 


prat; it is enough to have been a slave there. You 
are a noble man, and I love you; but I do not like 
conditions. Nor should I consent to accept a por- 
tion of my cousin’s fortune. I know she would 
gladly sacrifice it to free herself.” 

Edmee here cast upon me a burning glance and 
interrupted me with: “To free myself from what, 
if you please, Bernard?” 

I replied with a dart of malice: “To free your 
self, cousin, from a certain promise made at Roche- 
Mauprat!” 

“What promise did you make, Edmee?” asked her 
father. As he spoke the priest, grasped my arm, and 
I knew that my cousin’s confessor was in possession 
of our secret. 

“She promised,” said I with a smile, “to look 
upon me as her brother and friend: were not those 
your words, Edmee, and do you think that can be 
proved by money?” 

She rose quickly, and extending her hand said 
in a trembling voice: “Bernard, you have a noble 
heart, and I should never forgive myself were I to 
doubt it an instant!” 

The knight embraced me, while the priest said 
several times: “That is good! that is noble ! One 
need not learn that from books,” he added, address- 
ing the knight. “God writes his word and diffuses 
his spirit in the hearts of his children.” 


76 


MAUPRAT 


“You will see,” said the knight, deeply moved, 
that this Mauprat will redeem the honor of the 
family! Now, my dear Bernard, I will not speak to 
you again of business: but you cannot hinder me 
from doing that which I think is right! Come, Abbe, 
the carriage is waiting to take us to the solicitors. 
You, children, can breakfast together.” 

At the table the presence of Saint-Jean restrain- 
ed me from speaking upon the subject nearest my 
heart. I spoke of Patience, and asked Edmee how 
it happened that she was on such terms of intimacy 
with him. She told me the story of the rustic 
philosopher, with whose natural intelligence and wis- 
dom she had been favorably impressed. In fact, he 
had relapsed his habits for some time, and often 
paid her visits. 

“I cannot read much better than Patience,” I 
said to her; “I wish you would take as much pleas- 
ure in my society.” At that moment we left the 
table, and I was delighted to think I could come to 
some understanding with my cousin on reaching the 
drawing-room. There, to my disgust, however, we 
found M. de la Marche; in my heart I consigned 
him to perdition. He was a typical young man of 
the period; a disciple of the new philosophy a Vol- 

tairian — a great admirer of Franklin. 

We went into the garden, through which ran a 
pretty stream; when we reached its brink we found 
















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MAUPRAT 


77 


that the boards on which we generally crossed had 
been swept away by the storms of the preceding 
day. I seized Edmee in my arms and crossed with 
her. M. de la Marche, not wishing to appear more 
dainty than I was, did not hesitate to enter the 
water in his fine clothes and to follow me with 
bursts of laughter somewhat forced. Edmee did 
not laugh. I think that in giving her that proof of 
my strength and boldness she was startled at the 
thought of the love with which she inspired me. 
She was vexed, and said to me when I placed her 
gently on shore: 

“Bernard, I beg of you never to do such a thing 
again.” 

“Ah, you are angry!” said I. “But look at that 
man!. I cannot gather violets, but believe me, in 
danger you may give me the preference.” 

I had hoped M. de la Marche would be jealous; on 
the contrary, he laughed gayly at the pitiable con- 
dition of his dress, and complimented me on my 
exploit. Edmee was sad and preoccupied; it 
seemed an effort for her to treat me kindly. 

The knight and the priest returned in time for 
dinner. They conversed in low tones with M. de 
la Marche about the settlement of my affairs, and 
from the few words I overheard I inferred that my 
future was to be assured in the brilliant manner 
described to me that morning. I did not under- 


78 


MAUPRAT 


stand such generosity. I mistrusted a stratagem to 
separate me from my cousin. Edmee remained sad 
and passive; she retired soon after dinner; her 
father followed her anxiously. 

“Have you not noticed,” said the priest to M. de 
la Marche, “that Mile, de Mauprat is very much 
changed of late?” 

“She is thin,” replied the Lieutenant-General; 
“but I think she is as pretty as ever.” 

“Yes; but I fear that she is more indisposed than 
she will own,” replied the priest: “Her disposition 
is changed, as well as her face; she is melancholy.” 

“Melancholy? Why, it seemed to me she has 
never been as gay as she was this morning — is it 
not so, Bernard?” 

“There is something strained and forced about 
her gayety,” said the priest; “and suddenly she will 
lapse into a state of melancholy which I never 
noticed before that night in the forest.” 

“Indeed, she witnessed a horrible scene at the 
tower,” said M. de la Marche, “and her horse’s mad 
gallop must have frightened her. Tell me, M. Ber- 
nard, when you met her in the forest, did she seem 
very much frightened?” 

“In the forest?” I repeated; “I did not meet her 
in the forest.” 

“No, it was at La Varenne you met her,” said 
the priest hastily. “By- the bye, M. Bernard, will 


MAUPRAT 


79 


you permit me to say a word to you relative to your 
property of — ■” He dragged me out of the room 
and said in a low voice: “I beg of you not to let 
any one suspect, not even M. de la Marche, that 
Mile, de Mauprat was for one second at Roche- 
Mauprat.” 

“Why not?” I asked. “Was she not under my 
protection? Did she not leave there, pure thanks 
to me? Can you conceal the fact that she was 
there two hours?” 

“It can be concealed; dead men tell no tales, and 
I adjure, in the name of her father, of the friend- 
ship you bear her and which you avowed in so 
noble, so touching a manner this morning.” 

“You are very adroit, sir,” said I, interrupting 
him; “all your words have a hidden meaning which 
I divine though I am ignorant. Tell my cousin she 
may rest easy; tell her I will not interfere with her 
marriage; that I only ask one boon of her — that is 
the promise of friendship she gave to me at Roche- 
Mauprat. I see that you fear M. de la Marche will 
forsake her should the adventure be disclosed; if 
that gentleman is capable of insulting and suspect- 
ing Edmee, it seems to me that there is a means 
very simple by which all could be set right!” 

“And that is — ” 

“To challenge and kill him!” 

Mauprat — 6 


80 


MAUPRAT 


“But Bernard,” said the priest, “think of your 
cousin’s love for M. de la Marche!” 

“Yes, that is all the more reason,” I cried 
brusquely. 

The priest’s part was a difficult one: he had re- 
ceived, under the seal of confession, a confidence to 
which he could only make indirect allusion in 
speaking with me. By means of these allusions he 
hoped to make me comprehend the enormity of my 
obstinacy and to lead me to submit. He made a 
miscalculation; so much virtue was beyond my 
strength as it was beyond my comprehension. 


MAUPRAT 


81 


X 

For several days Edmee plead indisposition and 
left her room very rarely. M. de la Marche called 
every day; his castle was not far distant. I took 
more and more of an aversion to him notwithstand- 
ing the politeness he overwhelmed me with. I was 
somewhat comforted by seeing that he was not ad- 
mitted to Edmee’s apartments. The principal 
event of that week was the installation of Patience 
in a cabin near the castle. Edmee had won his 
heart and in offering him the small dwelling belong- 
ing to her father, situated in a picturesque ravine 
at the end of the park, she had done so with such 
tact and delicacy as not to wound his sensitive 
pride. It was indeed to complete this negotiation 
that the priest had gone to the Gazean tower with 
Marcasse on the night upon which, detained by the 
storm, they had given shelter to Edmee and me. 

The horrible scene that followed our arrival, put 
an end to Patience’s irresolution; after that nothing 
could have induced him to spend another night 
there. He followed us to Saint-Severe and soon 
his philosophical scruples were overcome byEdmee’s 


83 


MAUPRAT 


seductions; the cottage placed at his disposal was 
humble enough not to cause him to blush for his 
apparent connection with civilization. 

Here the narrator again interrupted his story to 
enter into the development of Mile, de Mauprat’s 
character. 

Edmee, said he, was one of the most perfect 
women in France. She had no desire to shine in 
society, she was happy in her family. She ignored 
her worth as I ignored it at that time when with 
sensual eyes I only perceived heF beauty. Her 
betrothed understood her no better. He had de- 
veloped his ideas in the cold school of Voltaire and 
Helvetius; Edmee had brightened her intellect by 
means of the glowing declamations of Jean-Jacques. 

The time arrived when I understood her, but the 
time never came when M. de la Marche understood 
her. Edmee, deprived during her infancy of her 
mother, had molded herself. The priest to whom 
her education was intrusted did not proscribe the 
writings of those philosophers by whom he had 
been seduced. Edmee admired the poets equally 
with the philosophers and on her walks always had 
a volume in her hand. She would explain to 
Patience several subjects from Tasso and other 
poets, and he would reproduce them in his peculiar 
style. It was a veritable pleasure to note the effect 


MAUPRAT 


83 


of poetical beauty on that puissant organization. 
He became familiar through us with Homer and 
Dante. His initiation into the world of poetry 
marked an epoch of transformation in his life. He 
understood love and saw in the starry sphere all the 
gods of Olympus, the fathers of primitive humanity; 
he read in the constellations the story of the Golden 
and Iron Ages; he heard in the wintry wind the 
songs of Morven and greeted in the stormy clouds 
the specters of Fingal and Comala. Before know- 
ing the poets, he said in his later years, I was like 
a man lacking in intellect. After knowing them I 
found that that intellect was required that I might 
^comprehend that which had perplexed me and de- 
stroyed my peace of mind. Then he would wander 
into language peculiar to himself, abounding in 
metaphors. 

At the period that I thoroughly understood 
Patience, between him and me there was a sympa- 
thetic bond. Like him I had been uneducated, like 
him I had attained the explanation of great prob- 
lems. Thanks to fortunate conditions of birth and 
wealth, I reached a high state of development 
while Patience was still struggling with the shadow, 
though I had to own the superiority of that mighty 
organization wrestling by the aid of feeble, instinct- 
ive glimmerings. 

At the time to which my story refers, however, 


84 


MAUPRAT 


Patience was, to me, merely a grotesque personage, 
an object of amusement to Edmee and of charitable 
compassion to Father Aubert. When they spoke 
to me of him I fancied they were demonstrating to 
me the advantages of an education, the necessity of 
applying myself in good season. Often as I ram- 
bled in the woods, I would see Edmee seated on the 
threshold of the humble cottage, a book in her hand, 
while Patience listened to her, his arms crossed, his 
head bowed upon his breast. I considered then 
that Edmee was absurd to burden herself with the 
impossibility of teaching him to read. I did not 
succeed in obtaining a tete-a-tete with her in that 
way for she was always accompanied by the priest 
or her father; finally my patience was exhausted. 

I found no means of forgetting my disappointment 
but by drinking hastily at supper; when after the 
meal she left the room, she first kissed her father, 
gave her hand to M. de la Marche, and passed me, 
saying coldly, “Good-night, Bernard!” which plainly 
said: “To-day has ended like yesterday, and to- 
morrow will end like to-day.” 

I remained ensconced in my easy-chair until the 
fumes of the wine were dissipated, when I would 
stroll into the park, revolving in my mind absurd 
dreams and sinister projects. One evening at sup- 
per she looked at me fixedly several times with an 
odd expression; on leaving the table she said to me 


MAUPRAT 


85 


in a low voice, quickly and imperiously: “Cease 
drinking, and learn all that the abbe teaches you.” 
Her tone of authority, instead of influencing me 
aright, aroused my anger. I met her upon the 
staircase as she was ascending to her chamber. 

“Do you think,” said I to her, “that I am going 
to be your dupe; that I have not noticed that for a 
month you have not addressed a word to me — that 
you have treated me like an inferior? You have 
lied to me, and now you scorn me for having been 
silly enough to believe your word.” 

“Bernard,” said she coldly, “this is not the place 
nor hour for an explanation.” 

“Ah, I know that according to you there will 
never be a time nor place; but I shall find both, 
never fear. You have told me that you loved me; 
you have cast your arms about my neck, and sworn 
by all you held sacred to be mine, all because you 
feared me, and now you avoid me lest I should 
claim my rights. But you will gain nothing by it; 
I promise you that you shall not trifle with me 
much longer.” 

“I shall never be yours,” she said in a voice which 
grew more and more icy, “if you do not change 
your language, your manners, and your thoughts. 
As you now are, I do not fear you. If you were 
kind and generous I might submit to you. Study, 
mend your ways, and we shall see.” 


86 


MAUPRAT 


“Very, well,” said I, “I understand that promise, 
and shall act in accordance with it. If I cannot 
be happy, I can at least be revenged!” 

“Take all the revenge you please,” said she; “it 
will only make me scorn you more.” Uttering 
those words she drew from her bosom a paper, which 
she held to the flame of the candle. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Burning a letter I wrote you,” she replied. “I 
wished to make you listen to reason, but it is out 
of the question; one cannot reason with brutes.” 

“You shall give me that letter!” I cried, attempt- 
ing to snatch it from her; but she cast the light 
upon the ground and made her escape in the dark- 
ness. 

I followed her in vain. She reached her room and 
drew the bolt. I descended to the garden. My anger 
was succeeded by profound sadness. Edmee, proud 
and defiant, seemed to me more desirable than ever. 
I felt that I had offended her; that she did not 
love me — that probably she would never love me 
again. Overcome by grief, I buried my face in my 
hands and sobbed. The dull sound of my stifled 
sobs attracted the attention of a person praying in 
the chapel, on the other side of the wall against 
which I was leaning. A painted window was 
directly above my head. 

Who is there?” inquired a voice, and looking up, 


MAUPRAT 


87 


I saw Edmee’s pale face lighted up by the oblique 
rays of the moon. On perceiving Edmee I 
attempted to depart, but she passed her pretty bare 
arm through the grating and seized me by my col- 
lar, saying, “Why are you weeping, Bernard?” I 
submitted to that gentle violence, half ashamed of 
having allowed the secret of my weakness to be sur- 
prised, half enraptured to find that Edmee was not 
insensible to it. 

“What is your trouble?” she continued; “what can 
draw from you such sobs?” 

“You scorn, you hate me, and you ask why I 
suffer, why I am angry?” 

“Are you crying for rage?” she asked, withdraw- 
ing her arm. 

“For rage, and perhaps for sorrow; the fact is, my 
heart is broken. I must leave you, Edmee; I can- 
not remain here.” 

“Why not? Explain yourself, Bernard; now is the 
time.” 

“Yes, with a wall between us; I suppose you are 
not afraid of me! Ah, I have been told that all 
women are false!” 

“Who told you that? Your uncle Jean, your 
uncle Goucher, or your grandfather Tristan?” 

“Make game of me if you will! But sometimes, 
methinks, they told the truth!” 

“Do you wish me tell you why they thought 


88 


MAUPRAT 


women false? Yes? Because they used violence and 
tyranny to beings weaker than they. Each time 
they inspired fear, they ran the risk of being 
deceived. When you were a child, and Jean struck 
you, did you never avoid his brutal correction 
by deceit?” 

“Yes; that was my only resource!” 

“Cunning is the resource of the oppresed; do 
you not know that?” 

“I know that I love you, and that there was no 
reason for you to deceive me.” 

“Who says that I have? You have deceived me. 
You professed to love me; you do not. I loved you 
because I saw you divided between detestable 
principles and a generous heart, inclined toward 
justice and honesty. And I love you now because 
I see that you have triumphed over evil, and that 
your wicked inspirations are followed by tears from 
a contrite heart. Then there are times when you 
seem to me so far beneath yourself that I cannot 
recognize you, and that I think I cannot love you. 
It depends upon you alone, Bernard, that I do not 
ever doubt you nor myself.” 

“What must I do?” 

“Correct your bad habits, listen to good counsel, 
open your heart to moral teachings. You are 
uncultivated, but you may be sure that it is neither 
your awkwardness at making a bow nor your igno- 









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89 


ranee of paying a compliment which turned me 
against you. On the contrary, it would be in my 
eyes a great charm if noble sentiments were hidden 
beneath this rudeness; but your sentiments and 
your ideas are like your manners. I know, how- 
ever, that it is not your fault, and if I see you ready 
to correct your weaknesses, I will love you as much 
for your defects as your good qualities. I do not 
love evil, and if you cultivate instead of extirpating 
it, I can never love you.” 

“I do not think there is evil in me. I was set a 
bad example in my childhood, but I did not imbibe 
such precepts. I never took pleasure in commit- 
ting misdeeds, nor in causing others suffering. I 
loathed money, of which they made an idol at 
Roche-Mauprat. Now that I can do as I wish, 
whom do I injure? Come, confess, Edmee, you 
do not think me wicked; but I do not please you 
because I am not learned, and you love M. de la 
Marche because he can utter nonsense at which I 
should blush.” 

“If to please me,” said she with a smile, and with- 
out withdrawing her hand, which I had taken 
through the grating, “to be preferred to M. de la 
Marche it is necessary to acquire knowledge, as 
you say, will you not do it?” 

“Perhaps I would be fool enough, for I cannot 
comprehend the power you have over me.” 


90 


MAUPRAT 


“You have more feeling and intelligence than any 
one thinks. No matter what I say to you in a 
moment of anger, I cherish for you an esteem 
and friendship which will endure as long as life 
lasts. The blood of the Mauprats does not flow as 
tranquilly as that of other beings; you who know 
that so well, must make allowances for my pride. 
Never tell me that I am forced to love you, for 
love cannot be governed; but bring it about so 
that I may always love you.” 

“Why are you intrenched behind these bars?” I 
asked, covering with kisses the wound I had made 
upon her arm a moment before in my frenzy. 
“Miserable grating! Edmee, if you would bend 
your head I could kiss you — kiss you as a sister.” 

“My dear Bernard,” she replied, “in the world 
in which I live they do not even kiss sisters, and 
never secretly. I will kiss you every day before 
my father, but not here.” 

“You will never kiss me!” I exclaimed angrily. 
“And your promise? My rights!” 

“If we marry,” she said with embarrassment; 
“when you have received your education.” 

“Are you mocking me? Is it a question of mar- 
riage between us? I do not want your fortune, I 
have told you!” 

“My fortune and yours are one,” she replied; 
“between relatives so closely allied as we are, the 


MAUPRAT 


91 


words’ ‘yours’ and ‘mine’ have no significance. 
The thought never occurred to me that you were 
covetous. I know that you love me, that you will 
prove it to me, and that the day will come when 
your love will no longer inspire me with fear, be- 
cause I will be able to accept it in the sight of God 
and man.” 

“If that is your idea,” I said, “my position is 
very different; but, to tell you the truth, I must 
consider it. I did not think you meant it thus.” 

“What else could I have meant?” she asked. 
“Does not a maiden disgrace herself by surrender- 
ing herself to any other man than her husband? I 
do not wish to bring dishonor upon myself, nor 
would you, who love me, wish it; you would not do 
me an irreparable wrong unless you were my mortal 
enemy.” 

“Listen, Edmee! I can tell you nothing as yet 
of my plans, for I have never had any with regard 
to you — the very thought of you inflamed my brain! 
You want me to marry you? Why?” 

“Because I could not honorably be yours with- 
out that; do you not understand? No? Well, 
education will teach you. You could not expect 
me to take for a husband a man guided by instinct 
alone.” 

“Yes, I understand that — you could not submit 
your life entirely to an animal of my species! But 


92 


MAUPRAT 


I do not ask it of you! I cannot think of it without 
trembling!” 

“But you must think of it, Bernard! Think it 
over well, and you will realize the necessity of fol- 
lowing my counsel.” 

She gently withdrew her hand from mine, and I 
think she said “Good-night,” but I did not hear 
it. I was absorbed in my thoughts, and when I 
raised my head to speak to her, she was no longer 
there. 

My conversation with Edmee had transported me 
into a new world. I wandered through the park, a 
prey to a thousand uncertainties. The night was 
magnificent; I felt its sweet influence; Edmee’s 
image danced before me on the paths, no longer 
exciting those transports which had devoured me. 
It seemed to me that for the first time I gazed upon 
the moon, the hills, and the fields. At times I was 
impelled to fall upon my knees and offer up a 
prayer to the Almighty, but I knew not how to 
address Him and feared I might offend Him by my 
prayers. 

The moon was so bright that I could distinguish 
the tiniest flower clearly. A small marguerite 
seemed to me so beautiful with its white collar 
fringed with purple, and its golden chalice filled with 
sparkling dew-drops that gathered and covered it 
with kisses, crying in ecstatic madness: “It is you, 


MAUPRAT 


93 


Edmee; yes, you are here. You no longer fly from 
pie!” What was my embarrassment when, on 
raising my eyes, I found that my folly had been 
witnessed. Patience stood before me. He smiled. 

“Well, well,” said the recluse calmly, “do you 
think I do not understand? I am not so simple, 
nor am I so old that I cannot see clearly. Who 
hides among the yews when Edmee is seated at my 
cottage door? Who follows me like a young wolf 
when I take her to her father’s house? What harm 
is there in it? You are both young, you are both 
handsome; you are both related, and if you so de- 
sire, you can become as worthy and as honorable a 
man as she is a maiden.” 

My wrath vanished on hearing Edmee’s name on 
Patience’s lips. We walked along side by side. 
He walked slowly, his hands behind him. He 
often interrupted his conversation to say, pointing 
to the starry vault: “Look at that; is it not grand?” 
He was the only peasant I ever saw who admired 
the heavens — or at least the only one who ever 
expressed his admiration. 

“Master Patience,” I said to him, “you say 1 
could become an honorable man if I would; you 
think then that I am not one?” 

“Do not be angry,” he replied. “Patience has 
the right to say anything; is he not the fool of the 
castle?” 


94 


MAUPRAT 


“Edmee pretends that you are its sage, on the 
contrary.” . . 

“Does she, the pure child of God? Well, if she 
thinks so, I will act like a sage, and give you some 
good advice, Master Bernard Mauprat. Will you 
listen to it?” 

“it seems that every one here takes upon himself 
to counsel. It matters not, I will listen.” 

“You are in love with your cousin!” 

“You are very bold to ask such a question.” 

“It is not a question, it is a statement; and now, 
I tell you, win your cousin’s love and become her 
husband.” 

“Why do you take such an interest in me, Master 
Patience?” 

“Because I know that you merit it.” 

“Who told you so — the abbe?” 

“Not a word.” 

“Edmee?” 

“A little — and that she is not in love with you, 
is your own fault.” 

“How is that, Patience?” 

“Because she wishes you to receive an education, 
and you will not. Ah, if I were your age — if all 
whom I met were willing to instruct me — if they 
said to me: ‘Patience, this is what must be done 
to-day; Patience, this is what must be done to- 
morrow’— I should be satisfied. But I have to 


MAUPRAT 


95 


pierce into the shadows for myself, and I shall die 
before I learn one-tenth of what I wish to know! 

I have, too, another reason for wanting you to marry 
Edmee.” 

“What is it, good Master Patience?” 

“It is that La Marche may not have her; he is 
no man; he smells like a flower-garden — but I 
prefer a sprig of wild thyme.” * 

“My faith, I have no love for him either; but if 
my cousin loves him — eh, Patience?” 

“Your cousin does not love him; she believes 
him to be good, she believes him to be true — she is 
deceiving herself, and he is deceiving her. I know 
he is a man who has no heart — who pretends to 
be charitable, but allows the poor to die of starva- 
tion at his very castle gates. How different is he 
from Edmee! You love her because she is beauti- 
ful, like a field daisy; I love her because she is good 
and pure. She is a generous maiden who deprives 
herself to give to the needy. Her mother was the 
same; for I knew her when she was young. I knew 
your mother too; she was a model woman — you 
resemble her, they say!” 

“Alas, no!” I replied; “I know neither charity 
nor justice.” 

“You have as yet been unable to practice them, 
but they are written in your heart, I know. Take 
courage, Mauprat. Follow the abbe’s advice — it 

Mauprot — 7 


96 


MAUPRAT 


is good. Try to please your cousin — she is a star in 
the firmament. Recognize truth; love the people, 
detest those who detest them; be ready to sacri- 
fice yourself for them. Listen to what I say — 
make yourself the friend of the people!” 

“Are the people, then, better than the nobility? 
Since you are a sage, Patience, tell me truly.” 

“The people are better than the nobility, because 
the latter oppress them and they suffer their op- 
pression. But they will not always submit. You 
see those stars? They will not change, they will 
be in the same place and will shed as much light 
ten thousand years from to-day; but there will 
soon be changes on earth. The poor man has en- 
dured a great deal; he will turn against the rich 
man — castles will fall and lands will be laid waste. 
I shall not see it, but you will. There will be ten 
cottages instead of this park, and ten families will 
live on its revenues; there will be no more serv- 
ants, nor masters, nor lords; there will be nobles 
who will yield only to force, as did your uncles, as 
will M. de la Marche, notwithstanding his fine talk. 
Then it will be well for Edmee if she has for her 
husband a man . It will be well for Bernard Mau- 
prat to know how to push a plough and to kill game, 
for old Patience will be sleeping beneath the turf 
in the cemetery, and will not be there to render 
Edmee the services she may require. Do not scoff 


MAUPRAT 


97 


at what I say, young man! It is the voice of 
God speaking through me. Look at the heavens; 
the stars live in peace, and nothing disarranges their 
eternal order; the large ones do not swallow up the 
lesser — not one encroaches upon its neighbor; the 
time will come when the same order will reign 
among men; the mean ones will be swept away. 
Strengthen yourself, Monsieur Mauprat, in order 
that you may do battle and shield Edmee — Patience, 
who wishes you well, warns you!” 

We had, during this speech, reached Patience’s 
cottage; with one hand resting on the railings of 
his small inclosure, gesticulating with the other, 
he talked with energy. His eyes glowed, his brow 
was bathed in perspiration; there was something 
about him like the prophets of old. As we stood 
there, I felt a return of the superstitious terrors of 
my youth, and a vision rose before me of the sor- 
cerer hanging above my head — the maimed owl. 


98 


MAUPRAT 


XI 

When I awoke, the following morning, the inci- 
dents of the preceding day seemed to me like a 
dream. I had not yet arisen when I heard the 
patter of M. de la Marche’s horse’s hoofs on the 
court-yard flags. Instinct bade me yield that day 
to an impetuous inspiration. I dressed hastily. I 
entered the drawing-room pale and excited. Edmee 
too was pale. She was seated by the fire-place; 
M. de la Marche was reading a newspaper at the 
other end of the room. Seeing Edmee so dispirited, 
my anger vanished. I approached her, seated myself 
beside her, and gazed upon her tenderly. 

“It is you, Bernard?” she murmured, without 
opening her eyes. 

It was the fashion of that day for ladies to wear 
elbow-sleeves. I perceived upon Edmee’s arm a 
bandage, and raising the lace upon her sleeve, I 
pressed my lips gently upon the wound I had made. 
M. de la Marche might see me. I longed to quarrel 
with him. 

Edmee started and blushed, then she said: “Truly, 
Bernard, you are very gallant this morning! Did 


MAUPRAT 


99 


you not compose a madrigal last night?” Her tone 
of raillery disconcerted me, but in my turn I replied 
with assurance: “Yes, I composed one last night 
at the chapel window, and if it be poor, cousin, it 
is your fault!” 

“Say rather the fault of your education,” replied 
Edmee sharply. 

Just then M. de la Marche approached us. I was 
prepared to insult him, but he did not perceive it, 
and turned to Edmee, addressing to her some re- 
marks in a low voice. 

“I have too severe a headache to remain here,” 
said she at length, rising. “Give me your arm to 
my room.” 

She leaned upon my rival’s arm, and they left the 
room together. 

I sought the park, my refuge in all my troubles, 
and cast myself upon the grass, trying to invent 
some plausible excuse by which to throw myself 
upon my enemy and strangle him. In my per- 
plexity, the dinner-hour slipped by, and dreading 
Edmee’s brusque remarks and the priest’s cold 
glances, I resolved not to return until night, and fell 
alseep where I lay. 

I was awakened by the sound of voices. Behind 
the foliage Edmee’s voice pronounced my name; 
at first I almost fancied I was dreaming, then I held 


100 


MAUPRAT 


my breath and listened. It was she, with the 
abbe, on her way to visit the recluse. 

“I fear,” said Edmee, “that he will cause trouble, 
perhaps very serious trouble, with M. de la Marche. 
You don’t know Bernard.” 

“He must be sent away at any price,” replied the 
priest; “you cannot live thus, continually exposed 
to his brutality.” 

“Since he has been here I even sleep with bolted 
doors — and see, abbe, I carry a poignard, like a 
heroine in a Spanish ballad.” 

“Edmee, we must find some means to alter this 
state of affairs. I can conceive that you do not 
wish to deprive him of your father’s friendship by 
telling him all; but if — Ah, Edmee, I am not a 
blood-thirsty man, but twenty times a day I deplore 
the fact that my calling forbids me to disembarrass 
you of him forever.” 

On hearing that charitable regret, I felt impelled 
to rush forth and put the priest’s war-like humor 
to the test, but I was restrained by a desire to learn 
Edmee’s true sentiments and designs with regard 
to me. 

“Listen to me,” resumed the priest, “we cannot 
speak of this before Patience; do not let us close 
this conversation without having come to a decis- 
ion.” 


MAUPRAT 


101 


“I am listening, my excellent friend,” said Edmee; 
“advise me.” 

“My dear child, I am the only one who can give 
you counsel, and you must speak to me frankly as 
to your confessor. Answer me, then — do you not 
regard as impossible a marriage between yourself 
and Bernard Mauprat?” 

“How can that which is inevitable be impossi- 
ble?” cried Edmee. “I have given him my vow by 
all I hold sacred.” 

“I will never countenance, as your priest, such 
an absurd and deplorable union! You the wife and 
slave of a cut-throat!” 

“Do you think he will beat me?” 

“If he does not kill you!” 

“Ah, no!” replied she; “I would kill him first!” 

“Your father, God be praised, will not consent 
to this marriage; he has given his word to M. de 
la Marche, and you have given yours; that promise 
only is valid.” 

“My father will gladly consent to a union that 
will perpetuate his name and live. As for M. de 
la Marche, he will release me without my taking 
the pains to ask him, when he finds that I spent 
two hours at Roche-Mauprat; there will be no need 
of any other explanation.” 

“He would be unworthy the esteem I bear him, 


102 


MAUPRAT 


if he would believe your name sullied by an unhappy 
adventure from which you issued unscathed.” 

“Thanks to Bernard,” said Edmee, “for I do 
owe him gratitude; his behavior was noble and 
inconceivable in a brigand such as he was.” 

“I should like to have an explanation with him 
to try to make him comprehend that honor de- 
mands that he free you from your promise; if he be 
not a brute, he will realize his folly. Absolve me 
from the secret imposed upon me, authorize me to 
speak to him, and I promise you success.” 

“I know you would not succeed,” said Edmee; 
“moreover, I would not consent to it. No matter 
what Bernard is, I wish to act honorably toward 
him; if I were to do as you advocate, he would have 
reason to believe that I had treated him infamously.” 

“Very well: there is one last resort — it is to trust 
to M. de la Marche’s honor and wisdom; if he for- 
sakes you, you can escape from Bernard’s persecu- 
tions by entering a convent.” 

“I have thought of that, but it is not yet time.” 

“Certainly not; we must first obtain M. de la 
Marche’s opinion; if he be the man I judge him, 
he will protect you and distance Bernard, either by 
persuasion or authority.” 

“What authority, abbe?” 

“The authority of the sword.” 

“An encounter between those two men is just 


MAUPRAT 


103 


what I desire to avoid — what I will avoid, should it 
cost me my life or my honor. I should loathe M. 
de la Marche were he to provoke to a duel that 
poor, ignorant boy. How could you have such 
thoughts? You must dislike the unhappy fellow 
very much! And I should have him killed by my 
husband as a reward for having saved me at the 
peril of his life! No, it shall not be. He is my 
cousin, a Mauprat — almost like my brother. He 
shall not be driven from this house; I would leave 
it myself rather.” 

“Those are very generous sentiments, Edmee; 
and with what warmth you express them! Did I 
not fear to offend you, I should tell you that this 
solicitude for young Mauprat suggests to me a 
strange thought.” 

“What thought?” asked Edmee abruptly. 

“Since you ask me, I will tell you. It is that 
you seem to take more interest in the young man 
than in M. de la Marche.” 

“Which needs that interest the most?” asked 
Edmee with a smile; “is it not the hardened sinner 
whose eyes have not seen the light?” 

“But, Edmee, you love M. de la Marche, do you 
not?” 

“If by love ,” said she seriously, “you mean to 
have confidence in a person and friendship for 
that person, then I love M. de la Marche; if you 


104 


MAUPRAT 


mean to have compassion for and an interest in 
another, then I love Bernard. But I feel that the 
only person I love with passion is my father, and 
the only thing I love with enthusiasm is my duty. 
I wish the lieutenant was not so attentive, for it 
will give me pain to tell him I cannot become his 
wife; still I do not doubt but that M. de la Marche 
will be easily consoled. I am not jesting, abbe. 
M. de la Marche is a cold man — his affections are 
not deep.” 

“If you do not love him any more than that, so 
much the better; and yet, noting this difference, I 
have lost my last hope of seeing you escape Ber- 
nard Mauprat.” 

“Do not grieve, my friend; either Bernard will 
be aroused to a sense of loyalty and friendship and 
improve himself, or I will escape him ” 

“How?” 

“Through the convent door or the cemetery 
gate. Come,” she added, “God will aid us; it is 
impious to doubt Him in time of danger. Are we 
atheists that we are so easily discouraged? Let 
us go to Patience, he will reassure us; he is the 
oracle who solves all questions without knowing 
anything.” 

They passed on, leaving me dismayed. Nothing 
could calm my sorrow, nothing could excite my 
anger; she loved neither M- de la Marche nor Rie, 


MAUPRAT 


105 


She appeared to me in a new light; she was no 
longer the lovely young girl whose presence stirred 
my very soul, but a young woman of my own age, 
bold, courageous, inflexible on the point of honor, 
generous, capable of deep friendship. From that 
moment my love was changed from a passion to 
a purer affection. I determined to be gentle and 
submissive. 

When I reached home I entered the pantry to 
obtain some food, for I was faint. While I was there 
Edmee came in with some cherries; on perceiving 
me she uttered a scream and dropped the fruit. 

“Edmee,” said I, “I beseech you not to fear me 
any more; that is all I can say, for I do not know, 
how to express myself.” 

“You can tell me another time, dear cousin,” she 
replied, trying to smile, but she could not conceal 
the fear she felt in finding herself alone with me. 

I made no attempt to detain her — I felt her mistrust 
deeply. As she was leaving the room I burst into 
tears. Edmee stopped on the threshold, and in the 
kindness of heart, suppressing her fear, she ap- 
proached me and said, “Bernard, you are unhappy; 
is it my fault?” 

I did not reply; I was ashamed of my tears, which 
I endeavored to control. 

“Come, tell me what ails you!” cried Edmee, 
venturing to place her hand upon my shoulder, 


IOC 


MAUPRAT 


while the tears trickled down her cheeks. I fell 
upon my knees and tried to speak, but could 
only articulate the word “to-morrow,” several 
times. 

“To-morrow! why to-morrow? Are you not con- 
tented here? Do you wish to go away?” 

“I will go if you wish it,” I managed to reply. 
“Tell me, do you never wish to see me more?” 

“I do not wish it; will you not remain here?” 

“Command me,” I replied. She looked at me 
in great surprise. I remained upon my knees. 

“I am sure that you are good; a Mauprat can be 
nothing by hab.es. You will lead a noble life when 
the inspiration comes to you.” 

“It has come!” 

“Indeed?” said she joyously. 

“On my honor, Edmee; dare you give me your 
hand?” 

“Certainly,” and she extended to me a trembling 
hand. “You have then made good resolutions?” 

“I have made such that you will never have cause 
to reproach me! Now go to your rooms, Edmee, 
and do not bolt the door; you need no longer fear 
me — my wishes shall be yours.” 

At the door she turned and said affectionately: 
“You must rest too; you are fatigued, you are sad; 
if you do not wish to grieve me, take care of your- 
self, Bernard.” In her eyes was an indefinable ex- 


MAUPRAT 


107 


pression, a mixture of mistrust and hope, affection 
and curiosity. 

“I will take care of myself; I will rest; I will 
not be sad — ” 

“And you will work?” 

“I will work! Edmee, will you pardon me for 
all the sorrow I have caused you, and love me a 
little?” 

“I will love you very much if you are always as 
you are to-night.” 

The next day I sought the priest. “Monsieur 
Aubert,” said I, “you proposed several times to 
give me lessons. I have come to ask you to put 
into execution your kind offer.” I had spent a 
portion of the night in preparing that speech. I 
felt very bitter against him; for though I knew 
that I merited all the evil he had said of me to 
Edmee, it seemed to me that he might have dwelt 
a little upon my good qualities which had not es- 
caped him. I conducted myself as would a gentle- 
man to an inferior. I was very attentive, very 
polite, and very cold. When I had taken my 
first lesson I saw in his keen eyes the desire to re- 
place that reserve by a sort of intimacy; but I did 
not countenance it. Upon going down to breakfast 
I saw that Edmee knew of the fulfillment of my 
promise. She gave me her hand first, and called 
me her dear cousin several times during the meal, 


108 


MAUPRAT 


while M. de la Marche’s face plainly betrayed 
surprise. 

I made rapid progress in my studies. At the end 
of a month I could express myself with ease and 
write well. Edmee took an interest in my work, 
and I was stimulated and encouraged. However, 
the change in my life and habits, the lack of phys- 
ical exercise, the strain upon my mind, brought on 
a nervous malady, and for some weeks I was de_ 
lirious. 

One night, during one of my lucid moments, I saw 
Edmee in my room. At first I thought it a dream. 
I rose; feeble, scarcely able to move, I tried to leave 
my bed. Patience approached and gently prevented 
me. Saint- Jean was sleeping in an easy-chair. 
Every night two *men watched by my bedside. 
Seizing Patience’s hand, I asked him if that was 
Edmee’ s corpse lying in the chair. 

“It is the living Edmee,” he replied in a low voice, 
“but she is asleep, my dear sir; do not awaken her. 
If you require anything, I am here to attend to 
your wants.” 

“Dear Patience, you are deceiving me; she is 
dead, and so am I; you are here to bury us. Put us 
in the same coffin, for we are betrothed. Where 
is the ring? get it and put it on my finger. Our 
wedding-night has arrived!” I persisted in my 
wild fancy, and Patience, fearing a violent outbreak, 



pll I ti 










WmMmm 


W 


WM 

mmi 




























MAUPRAT 


109 


gently took a ring from Edmee’s finger and slipped 
it on mine. When that was done, I pressed a 
kiss upon it, crossed my hands upon my breast 
and fell asleep. The following day, when they at- 
tempted to take the ring from me, I became furious. 
As I dozed the priest took it from my finger; on 
awaking I missed it. Edmee, who was in the room, 
ran to my bedside and replaced it, addressing sev- 
eral reproachful words to the priest. I grew calm 
at once, and raising my dim eyes to hers I said: 

“Are you not my wife as much after death as 
during life?” 

“Certainly,” said she; “rest in peace.” 

She bent over me and kissed me. I fell asleep, my 
hands in hers, repeating at intervals, “The tomb 
is blessed — death is blissful!” 

During my convalescence Edmee was less demon- 
strative, but just as assiduous. I begged of her to 
let me keep the ring, and she consented. When I 
asked Patience for M. de la Marche he replied: 

“He has gone!” 

“Gone? For a long time?” 

“Forever, if God so wills it. I know nothing 
about it, for I ask no questions; but I chanced to be 
in the garden when he took his leave — it was as 
cold as a December night! Mauprat, Mauprat! 
they say you have become a great student. Remem- 
ber what I have told you — when you grow old there 


110 


MAUPRAT 


will perhaps be neither titles nor manors; perchance 
they may call you Father Mauprat as they call me 
Father Patience, although I have never been a monk 
nor the father of a family!” 

“What are you aiming at?” 

“Remember what I have told you,” he repeated. 
“I consent to your marriage with your cousin; 
continue in the right way.” 

“Be silent, Patience! You give me pain; my 
cousin does not love me.” 

“I tell you she does! I know how she nursed 
you, and when you were so ill I saw her on her 
knees in her room at five o’clock in the morning.” 

In proportion as I grew stronger, Edmee became 
more prudent; her visits were shortened, and when 
I could leave my room, I only spent a few hours 
each day with her, as before my illness. I was in 
the same terms with her as I had been. M. de la 
Marche was in Paris; according to her statement, 
he had been called thither on business, and would 
return at the end of the winter. She did not hint 
at any rupture; she spoke of him naturally and 
without any reticence. I was again rendered un- 
certain. 

“I will force her to prefer me,” I determined. 

I plunged into my studies and astonished the 
priest by my aptitude. The care he had taken of 
me during my illness had disarmed me, and although 


MAUPRAT 


111 


I could not cordially like him, I showed him more 
regard than I had in the past. His long conversa- 
tions were very instructive. I took rambles with 
him, and together we paid visits to Patience’s snow- 
covered cottage. That was a means of meeting 
Edmee. My conduct was such that she no longer 
feared me, but I had no opportunity of proving my 
heroism, for the priest followed us closely. 

As my education advanced and my preceptor 
praised my wonderful gifts, I developed a vice 
which until then had lain dormant — the vice of 
vanity. I became as talkative as I had once been 
silent. I fancied myself a man — a wonderful man. 
I would enter into arguments with my uncle, who 
was imbued with many prejudices; he had received 
a good education in his day, but times had changed. 
He, however, would brook no contradiction, and 
as he had not the gift of expressing himself, his 
natural impatience was augmented. When Edmee 
ventured to express an opinion, even against her 
convictions, to help her father out, he would cry: 

“Let him talk, Edmee; you need not interfere. 
Did you not always interrupt, I would prove to him 
his absurdity !” 

“ The proof ” always terminated in his leaving the 
room to cool his ire; in the course of an hour he 
returned as good-natured as ever. 

Edmee was much concerned at the development 

Mauprat — 8 


112 


MAUPRAT 


\ 


of that defect in my character, and treated me as 
gently and kindly with regard to it as a mother. 

After many conferences with the priest, she re- 
solved to persuade her father to move to Paris dur- 
ing the last weeks of the carnival. Her father had 
no will but hers. I trembled with delight at the 
thought of seeing Paris. 

We set out one lovely March morning; the knight 
with his daughter and Mile. Leblanc in 2 post-chaise; 
I in another with the priest, who very illy concealed 
his joy at visiting the capital for the first time in 
his life, and my valet, Saint- Jean, who bowed low 
to every passer-by, in order not to forget his habits 
of politeness. 


MAUPRAT 


113 


XII 

That epoch marked a new phase in my life. I 
spent most of my time with the priest; at dinner 
we all met; in the evening we went out. At first I 
was filled with admiration for everything, but in a 
few weeks I passed from an excess of admiration 
to an excess of disdain. That you may obtain 
some idea of the history of that time, I will just 
mention that the War of Independence had broken 
out in America; that Voltaire received his apotheo- 
sis in Paris, and that Franklin, the prophet of a 
new political religion, had sown even in the heart 
of the French court the seeds of republicanism. 

A friend of M. Turgot’s, the knight had not 
mingled with the gilded youth of his day, and his 
world was composed of grave lawyers, old soldiers, 
and several lords from the country, who, like him, 
had come to spend a short time in Paris. Still he 
had acquaintances in the gay world, where Edmee’s 
beauty and refinement were soon remarked. She 
was sought after by great ladies, and soon the small 
drawing-room which she had chosen for her father’s 
old friends was not spacious enough to accommodate 


114 


MAUPRAT 


the great wits and ladies with philosophical hobbies 
who desired to become acquainted with the “Young 
Quakeress,” the “Rose of Berry” — names bestowed 
upon her by the fashionable world. 

Edmee’s social success did not turn her head; 
she possessed wonderful control over herself, and 
admirable good sense pervaded all her words and 
actions. In strong contrast to her were the women 
the most admired in society. I felt ill at ease when 
near them, and it required many lectures from Ed- 
mee to prevent me from betraying my contempt for 
what is called in worldly parlance their “coquetry,” 
“amiability,” and “grace.” The priest was of my 
opinion, and when the drawing-room was cleared, 
before retiring we would cross swords with my 
uncle and cousin on that subject. 

Edmee alone retained her frank sincerity, her 
natural grace. Seated on a sofa near M. de Male- 
sherbes, she was the same person I had watched 
so many times seated in the waning light of the 
setting sun on a stone bench on the threshold of 
Patience’s cottage. 


MAUPRAT 


115 


XIII 

My perplexity was increased — the hope of gaining 
Edmee’s affection by submission and devotion had 
failed me. Though she had bade me remain, though 
she interested herself in my studies, when I be- 
trayed by word or look my love for her, she became 
distant and cold. In the meantime many wooed 
her, but none were accepted. It was rumored 
abroad that she was engaged to M. de la Marche, 
but they could not account for the marriage not 
taking place except by the fact that she loved me 
better. 

My singular history was known. The ladies re- 
garded me with curiosity; the men took an interest 
in me, which I affected to scorn, but which pleased 
me nevertheless. I was introduced to Franklin as 
a sincere lover of liberty; Sir Arthur Lee honored 
me with some good counsel. My head was turned 
like the heads of those I had railed against. I took 
pride in not powdering my hair, in wearing heavy 
boots, in appearing everywhere in the simplest at- 
tire. I was nineteen, and lived in a time when 
every one had peculiarities — that is my only excuse. 


116 


MAUPRAT 


Spring arrived; we were preparing to return to 
the country; the drawing-rooms were thinning out, 
and I was still in the same uncertainty. I noticed 
one day that M. de la Marche showed an inclina- 
tion for a tete-a-tete with Edmee; at first I took 
a delight in remaining unmovable in my chair, but 
seeing upon Edmee’ s forehead the slight frown I 
understood so well, after a mute consultation with 
myself, I left the room determined to learn the 
issue of their conversation, and to learn, too, my 
fate, whatever it might be. 

At the end of an hour I returned; my uncle was 
in the room. M. de la Marche remained to dinner. 
Edmee was pensive and sad. The lieutenant ac- 
companied my uncle to the Comedie Francaise; 
Edmee said she had letters to write and asked to 
be permitted to remain at home. I followed the 
two men, but after the first act I stole away and 
hastened home. 

I entered the drawing-room, fearing lest Edmee 
might be in her room — thither I could not have fol- 
lowed her. But I found her near the fire-place, amus- 
ing herself by picking to pieces the blue and white 
asters I had gathered at the grave of Jean- Jacques 
Rousseau. Those flowers recalled to my mind the 
only hours of perfect happiness I could remember 
in my life. 

“Home so soon?” she said. 


M A UP RAT 


117 


“ ‘So soon’ is an unkind word,” I replied; “would 
you like me to go to my room, Edmee?” 

“No; but you would have profited more by the 
representation of Merope than by talking to me 
this evening, for I warn you that I am stupid.” 

“So much the better, cousin; for the first time 
we will be on a footing of equality. But why, may 
I ask, are you treating my asters with such con- 
tempt? I thought you would guard them as relics.” 

“I am playing an interesting game,” said she; 
“do not disturb me.” 

“I know it,” said I to her. “All the children at 
La Varenne play it, and all our shepherdesses be- 
lieve in its revelations. Shall I interpret for you?” 

“Yes, great necromancer!” 

“A little , means that some one loves you; very 
much , that you love him; passionately , that another 
loves you; not at all, that is how you love that other.” 

“And can you tell, sir wizard, who that some one 
and another are? I believe you are like the witches 

of old you do not yourself know the meaning of 

your oracles!” 

“Can you not guess, Edmee?” 

“Yes,” said she, throwing aside the flowers; “I 
love M. de la Marche a little; I love you very 
much; he loves me passionately; you do not love 
me at all! That is the truth!” 

“I pardon your interpretation with all my heart 


118 


MAUPRAT 


on account of the words ‘very much, ’ ” I replied, at- 
tempting to seize her hand, which she drew away. 
I felt emboldened, however, I knew not why, and 
ventured to make some remarks relative to her tete- 
a-tete with M. de la Marche. She took no pains 
to deny my accusations, but smiled provokingly. 
Her manner was beginning to irritate me, when a 
servant entered and handed her a letter, saying 
that some one was awaiting a reply. 

“Mend me a pen, please,” she said to me. With 
a nonchalant air she broke the seal and glanced 
through the note, while I prepared the writing 
materials. Pen and paper were placed in readiness, 
but Edmee made no use of them. The open letter 
lay upon her knee, her feet rested on the fender, 
her elbows on the arms of her chair. She was 
wrapt in thought. I spoke to her softly. She 
did not hear me. I thought she had forgotten the 
letter and was asleep. In a quarter of an hour the 
servant returned and asked if there was a reply. 

“Certainly;” she said, “tell him to wait.” 

She re-read the letter and began to write slowly; 
then she threw her reply into the fire, pushed back 
her chair, took several turns in the room, suddenly 
stopped before me and looked at me severely and 
coldly. 

“Edmee,” I cried impetuously, “what ails you? 
what connection can that letter have with me?” 


MAUPRAT 


119 


“What does that concern you?” 

“What does it concern me? What is the air I 
breathe to me, the blood that flows in my veins? 
Ask me that, but do not ask me how one of your 
words, your glances affects me, for you know my 
life depends upon them!” 

“Do not utter such nonsense, Bernard,” said she, 
returning to her chair absently; “there is a time for 
everything!” 

“Edmee, Edmee, do not tamper with a sleeping 
lion; do not rekindle the flame that smolders 
beneath the ashes.” 

She shrugged her shoulders and began to write 
again. Her color came and went, and from time to 
time she ran her fingers through her curly locks; 
she was dangerously beautiful. She seemed to be 
in love — but with whom? — with him to whom she 
was writing? 

I left the room and entered the ante-chamber. 
I looked at the man who had brought the letter — 
he wore M. de la Marche’s livery. That enraged 
me. I re-entered the room and closed the door 
noisily after me. Edmee did not turn her head; 
she continued writing. I seated myself opposite 
her; I glanced at her with glowing eyes; she did 
not deign to raise hers to mine. Finally she 
sealed her letter; I arose and approached her. 

“Edmee/’ said I bitterly, with what was meant 


120 


MAUPRAT 


as a caustic smile, “do you want me to hand 
that letter to M. de la Marche’s lackey and to 
whisper in his ear at what hour his master may 
meet you?” 

“It seems to me,” she replied with an equanimity 
which exasperated me, “that I have named the 
hour in my note, and that it is unnecessary to inform 
the servant of it.” 

“Edmee, you might spare me a little,” I cried. 

She threw down the letter she had received and 
left the room to deliver her reply herself to the mes- 
senger. I did not know if she meant me to read 
'that letter, but the desire to do so was irresistible. 
It was to this effect: 

“Edmee: I have at length discovered the fatal 
secret which according to you has placed an insur- 
mountable barrier between us. Bernard loves you; 
his manner this morning betrayed him; but you do 
not love him, I am sure — that is impossible! You 
should have told me frankly; I have succeeded in 
finding out that you spent two hours in the brig- 
and’s den! Unfortunate woman, your prudence, 
your supreme delicacy, ennoble you in my eyes! 
Why did you not tell me at first? I should with a 
word have allayed your fears! I would have 
helped you to conceal your secret. I would have 
sympathized with you, or rather I would have 
effaced the odious memory by tokens of. love. 


MAUPRAT 


121 


However, all is not lost. Edmee, I love you more 
than ever — more than ever I am determined to 
share with you my name; deign to accept my offer.” 

This note was signed “Adhemar de la Marche.” 

Scarcely had I finished reading it when Edmee 
returned; she seemed uneasy. I handed her the let- 
ter; she took it with an absent air, and leaning over 
the grate, she seized a charred paper which the 
flames had not consumed. It was her first reply 
to M. de la Marche’s note. 

“Edmee,” I implored, falling upon my knees, 
“let me see that paper. Whatever it may be, I 
will submit to the sentence dictated by your first 
motive.” 

“Indeed, will you? If I loved M.de la Marche, 
if I made a great sacrifice in renouncing him, would 
you be generous enough to release me from my 
promise?” 

I rose trembling with anger and bathed in a cold 
perspiration. 

“You love him!” I cried; “confess that you love 
him.” 

“And if I did,” said she, putting the note in her 
pocket, “where would be the crime?” 

“The crime would be in having lied up to this 
time, in saying that you did not love him.” 

“ ‘Up to this time’ includes a great deal! We 
have had no conversation on that point since last 


122 


MAUPRAT 


year. At that time possibly I did not love Adhe- 
mar very much — possibly now I love him better 
than you. If I were to compare your conduct to- 
day with his, I should see on the one side a man 
without pride or delicacy, who takes advantage of a 
promise which my heart has perhaps not ratified; on 
the other an estimable friend, whose devotion braves 
all prejudice, and who, believing me sullied, does not 
insist on covering the blot with his protection.” 

“What! that wretch thinks I have insulted you, 
and he does not challenge me?” 

“He does not think so, Bernard. He knows you 
helped me to escape from Roche-Mauprat, but he 
thinks it was too late.” 

“And he wishes to marry you, Edmee? Either 
he is a very noble man or he is more deeply in 
debt than I think him!” 

“Be silent!” said Edmee angrily; “that odious 
explanation of such generous conduct emanates 
from a perverse spirit. Be silent, if you do not 
wish me to despise you!” 

“Say that you hate me, Edmee — say it without 
fear, for I know it!” 

“Without fear! You must know that I do not 
P a y y°u the honor to fear you; now answer me: 
without knowing what I intend to do, do you com- 
prehend that you should free me and renounce 
your barbarous claim?” 


MAUPRAT 


123 


“I comprehend nothing but that I love you mad- 
ly, and that I will tear out the heart of him who 
dares to dispute my right to you. If I do not suc- 
ceed in forcing yopr love, I will not permit you to 
belong to another while I live. They shall step 
over my dead body to place the wedding-ring on 
your finger; again, I will disgrace you with my 
dying breath, by proclaiming that you have been 
mine, and thus will I mar the joy of him who would 
triumph over me, and if in dying I could stab you 
I would do so, that in the grave at least you might 
be my wife. That is what I shall do, Edmee; and 
dupe me as you will, your intrigues will have but 
one termination, for I have sworn it by the name 
of Mauprat.” 

“Of Mauprat the cut-throat!” she replied with 
cold irony, as she turned to leave the room. I 
was about to grasp her arm, when the priest en- 
tered. Edmee pressed his hand and retired to her 
room without addressing another word to me. The 
good man perceiving my agitation, questioned me 
as to its cause. But he had never succeeded in 
drawing from me a word on the subject of my love 
for Edmee, for I had never pardoned the ill-turn 
he had served me. I therefore evaded his ques- 
tions and left him, to throw myself upon my bed 
and burst into sobs, those pitiless conquerors of 
my pride and anger. 


134 


MAUPRAT 


XIV 

The next day my despair increased. Edmee 
was like an icicle. M. de la Marche did not put 
in an appearance. I could not, however, get a mo- 
ment alone with Edmee; in the evening I sought 
M. de la Marche. I did not know what I wished 
to say to him. I was in a state of exasperation 
which impelled me to act aimlessly without any 
set plans. I learned that he had left Paris. I re- 
turned home. I found my uncle gloomy. He 
frowned on seeing me, and after exchanging several 
trifling remarks with me, he left me to the priest, 
who tried to make me talk and who succeeded no 
better than he had the preceding day. For sev- 
eral days I sought an opportunity of conversing 
with Edmee; she avoided such a meeting. Prepa- 
rations were being made to leave for Sainte-Severe; 
she seemed neither sad nor joyful. Finally I re- 
solved to slip a few lines between the pages of her 
book, asking for an interview. In the course of 
five minutes I received the following reply: 

“An interview would lead to no results; you would 
persist in your indelicacy and I in my loyalty. I 


MAUPRAT 


125 


have sworn to be yours before all others; as an 
honorable woman, I shall not attempt to free 
myself from my promise — I will not marry any 
other. If you continue, however, to be unworthy of 
my esteem, I will not marry you. My father is 
nearing his end; a convent shall be my refuge 
when the only bond which attaches me to the world 
is snapped asunder.” 

I paced the floor all night in agitation; I did not 
try to sleep. At daybreak I was at La Fayette’s; 
he procured for me the necessary papers for leav- 
ing France; he told me to await him in Spain, 
whence he would embark for the United States. I 
returned home to gather together the effects and 
money required for a very modest traveler. I left 
a line for my uncle to the effect that he should not 
worry about my absence — I would explain all in a 
long letter shortly. I begged of him not to con- 
demn me until then, and to believe that I should 
never forget his kindness. I set out before any 
one had arisen, for I feared that my resolution 
would waver at the slightest signs of friendship. 
I could not pass Edmee’s door without pressing my 
lips to the lock; then burying my face in my 
hands, I hurried on like a madman. I scarcely 
halted until I reached the other side of the Pyrenees. 
Then I took some rest and wrote to Edmee that 
she was free; that I would not oppose any of her 


126 


MAUPRAT 


wishes, but that I could not remain to witness my 
rival’s triumph. I was positive that she loved him; 
I was determined to conquer my love. I promised 
more than I could adhere to, for my wounded pride 
gave me confidence in myself. 

I also wrote to my uncle, telling him that I did 
not consider myself worthy of the unlimited kind- 
ness showered upon me by him, as long as I had 
not won my knightly spurs. I informed him of my 
hopes of glory and fame; and, as I knew that Ed- 
mee would read the letter, I affected to be happy 
and full of ardor. I do not know if my uncle knew 
of the true reasons for my departure, but my pride 
would not permit me to confess them to him. I 
concluded by beseeching him not to incur any ex- 
pense on my account upon the gloomy tower of 
Roche-Mauprat, assuring him that I could never 
make up my mind to occupy it, and asking him to 
consider the fief rebought by him as his daughter’s 
property. I only asked him to advance me my 
share of the income for two or three years, that I 
might pay the costs of my outfit. My conduct and 
letters proved satisfactory. Arrived on the coast 
of Spain, I received from my uncle a letter full of 
encouragement and of gentle reproach for my ab- 
rupt departure; he gave me his blessing, declared 
that the fief of Roche-Mauprat should never belong 


MAUPRAT 


127 


to Edmee, and sent me a considerable sum of 
money apart from my income. 

The priest too reproached yet encouraged me; it 
was easy to see that he preferred Edmee’ s peace 
of mind to my happiness, and that he was truly 
rejoiced at my absence. A note without any ad- 
dress was slipped as an after-thought between those 
two letters. I knew that it was from the only 
person in the world in whom I was really interested, 
but I had not the courage to open it. I strolled 
along the sands by the sea, turning that scrap of 
paper in my trembling hands and fearing that upon 
reading it I might lose the calm despair inspired 
by my courage. More especially did I dread her 
thanks and expressions of enthusiastic joy behind 
which lurked the love of another. 

“What can she have written me?” I asked myself; 
“why did she write? I do not want her pity, still 
less her gratitude.” I was tempted to cast the 
fatal letter into the sea. I held it toward the 
waves, then pressed it to my heart. At length I 
decided to break the seal and read these words: 

“You have done well, Bernard; but I shall miss 
you more than I can tell you. Go, however, where 
honor and duty call you; my prayer will follow 
you. Return when your mission is accomplished; 
you will find me neither married nor a nun.” 

In that note was inclosed the cornelian ring I 
Mauprat — 9 


128 


MAUPRAT 


had worn during my illness and which I had re- 
turned to her on leaving Paris. I had a small gold- 
en case made in which I placed the note and ring, 
and which I wore upon my person. 

La Fayette, arrested in France by order of the 
government, which opposed his expedition, soon 
joined us, after making his escape from prison. 
My preparations completed, I sailed away full of 
sadness, ambition, and hope. I shall not give you 
a description of the American war, as I am dealing 
principally with my personal experiences, and the 
history of that war is familiar to all. From an 
inferior rank in Washington’s army, gladly accepted 
by me when I started out, I rapidly advanced to 
the rank of an officer. My military education was 
rapid. I entered into that with all my energy. 
I gained the confidence of my superiors; an excel- 
lent constitution enabled me to bear the hardships 
of such a life. In the midst of these I had the 
good fortune to cultivate the friendship of a young 
man, sent to me by Providence, as a companion 
and friend. A love for natural science had induced 
him to join our expedition, and it was easy to see 
that political sympathy played only a secondary 
part. He had no desire for advancement, no apti- 
tude for strategical studies. He was more inter- 
ested in his researches than in the successes of war 
and the triumph of liberty. His portmanteau was 


MAUPRAT 


129 


always filled, not with money and clothes, but with 
specimens of natural history. I conceived for him 
a stronger liking than for any young man of my 
age. I was delighted to find in him what I called 
a “brother-in-arms,” and requested him to consider 
me as such to the exclusion of any other intimacy. 
He complied with a readiness which convinced me 
that there was a bond of sympathy between us. 
He tried to prove to me that I was born to be a 
naturalist ; he reproached me for my preoccupation, 
and claimed that I was endowed with qualities 
which would some day enable me to invent an ex- 
cellent system of classification. His prediction was 
not realized, but his encouragement awoke in me 
the taste for study, which prevented my mind from 
becoming rusty during our camp life. He was to 
me as a messenger from heaven; he obtained over 
me an ascendancy which the priest had never suc- 
ceeded in obtaining. He revealed to me a great 
portion of the physical world, but what he taught 
me of the most value was to understand myself 
and to reflect upon my impressions. I succeeded 
in governing myself to a certain point, but I never 
altogether conquered pride nor violence; one can- 
not change the essence of one’s being, but one can 
direct one’s diverse faculties toward good. 

Arthur’s influence led me to reflect and I succeed- 
ed in divining the motives of Edmee’s conduct. 


130 


MAUPRAT 


I found her noble and generous, above all in those 
things which had wounded me the most. The 
holy flame of my love did not pale during the six 
years of my absence. Amidst all the temptations 
to which I was exposed, I maintained my purity. 
Arthur was not infallible — several times he advised 
me not to shun the pleasures held out to me, but 
when I confided to him the passion which distanced 
all weakness, he ceased to combat what he had 
until then called my “fanaticism,” and I perceived 
that he had more respect for me. 

I related to him the details of my love affair, that 
he might judge of my position with regard to Ed- 
mee. I opened my heart to him and told him my 
story. Arthur, at its conclusion, seized my hand, 
assured me that I was loved, and that he saw a 
fresh proof of affection in each act of harshness 
and mistrust. 

“Child,” he said to me, “had she not wished to 
marry you, do you not see that she would have had 
a means of freeing herself from your claims? If 
she did not love you, would she have taken so much 
trouble to raise you from your state of abjection 
and render you worthy of her?” 

He then entered on a dissertation as to the prob- 
abilities of the future and advised me to yield to 
my lady-love’s wishes. 


MAUPRAT 


131 


“But would it not be a disgrace for a man like 
me to submit to the caprices of a woman?” 

“No,” replied Arthur, “it is no disgrace, for that 
woman’s conduct is not dictated by caprice. Only 
honorable conduct can make reparation for injury, 
and how few men are capable of it! You conducted 
yourself like Albion; do not be astonished that Ed- 
mee is as Philadelphia. She will only yield to a 
condition of glorious peace, and she is right.” 

He inquired as to what communication I had had 
with Edmee while in America; I showed him the 
few short letters I had received from her. He was 
struck by the common-sense and loyalty pervading 
them. She gave me no promise, she did not even 
encourage me by any direct hope, but she showed 
a lively interest in my return, and alluded to the 
pleasures of a reunion when the stories of my thrill- 
ing adventures would help to while away the even- 
ings at the castle. 

Neither my cousin’s, my uncle’s, nor the priest’s 
letters ever mentioned family matters. 

“Explain that if you can,” I said to Arthur. 
“There are times when I fancy that Edmee is mar- 
ried, and that they have agreed to keep the fact 
from me until my return. Is it possible that she 
loves me sufficiently to seclude herself from so- 
ciety?” 

He rejected my suspicion of Edmee’ s marriage 


132 


MAUPRAT 


as a morbid fancy; on the contrary, he looked upon 
Edmee’s silence on the subject of her social inter- 
course as admirable delicacy of feeling. 

“A vain person would,” said he, “inform you of 
all the sacrifices made for you, of all the suitors re- 
jected; but Edmeeis too high-minded to enter into 
such frivolous details.” 

These conversations were as a salutary balm to 
my wounds. 

When France openly agreed to “an alliance 
with America, I received news from the priest 
which entirely reassured me on one point. 
He wrote me that probably I would meet in the 
New World an old friend. Count de la Marche 
had command of a regiment and had set out for the 
United States. 

“Between us,” added the priest, “it was highly 
essential for him to make a position. Though mod- 
est and intelligent, he has always had a weakness 
for yielding to the prejudice of birth. In the world 
they attribute the rupture between him and Edmee 
to his reverses of fortune, and they even say that 
he was more attached to her dowry than to her 
person. I cannot believe him capable of such base 
designs. If you meet him, Edmee desires that you 
show an interest in him; your cousin’s conduct 
with regard to him has been, as it is in all else, full 
of dignity and gentleness.” 


MAUPRAT 


133 


XV 

On the eve of M. de la Marche’s departure, after 
the priest had sent away his letter, an event took 
place at La Varenne which caused me in America 
a pleasant surprise, and which moreover was con- 
nected in a remarkable manner with the most im- 
portant events of my life, as you shall see later. 

Although I had been wounded at Savannah, I 
was actively engaged in Virginia, under the orders 
of General Greene, in collecting the remainder of 
Gates’ army — Gates, who was in my opinion a hero 
far superior to his fortunate rival, Washington. 
We had just received the news of the landing of 
M. de Ternay’s squadron, and we hoped for more 
help than we indeed received. 

I was walking in the woods with Arthur, not very 
far from the camp, profiting by the moment of res- 
pite to talk of other subjects than Cornwallis and 
Arnold’s infamy. I would tell Arthur of the family 
at Sainte-Severe, and of many awkward scenes in 
my early life there, after leaving Roche-Mauprat; I 
too described to him my dress and the scorn and 
horror of Mile. Leblanc. 


134 


MAUPRAT 


I do not know how, in the midst of those amusing 
pictures, the solemn hidalgo, Marcasse, presented 
himself to my mind, but he did, and I gave a faith- 
ful sketch of that enigmatical personage. Arthur 
laughed heartily, and declared he would give all he 
had to own an “animal,” as curious as the one I 
had described to him. 

Suddenly, at a bend in the road, we found our- 
selves in the presence of a tall man, poorly clad, 
very much emaciated, with a grave and pensive air, 
carrying a long sword in his hand. The person so 
strongly resembled my sketch that Arthur, struck 
by the absurd likeness, burst into a roar of laughter 
and stepped aside to allow Marcasse’ s “double” to 
pass by. As for me, I no longer laughed. With 
eyes fixed and arm extended, I approached, not Mar- 
casse’s ghost, but Marcasse in the flesh. Petrified 
with astonishment, I retreated several paces, while 
my emotion, which Arthur mistook for facetiousness, 
served to increase his hilarity. 

The rat-catcher exhibited no surprise; perhaps 
he thought that was the way of greeting people 
on the other side of the ocean. Arthur’s gayety, 
however, became infectious when Marcasse said 
to me with incomparable composure: 

“It is a long time, Monsieur Bernard, since I 
have had the honor of meeting you.” 

“It is indeed, my good man,” said I gayly, shak- 


MAUPRAT 


135 


ing my old friend’s hand; “but tell me how it hap- 
pens that I meet you here?” 

“I will tell you, my dear general,” replied Mar- 
casse, who had apparently been dazzled by my 
captain’s uniform. “If you will permit me to walk 
with you, I will tell you many things, many things!” 

Upon hearing Marcasse repeat his last words in 
a low tone, as if echoing them, Arthur’s mirth 
burst forth anew. Marcasse turned toward him 
and saluted him with imperturbable gravity. Ar- 
thur became serious at once, rose and bowed to the 
ground with comical dignity. 

We returned to the camp together. On the way 
Marcasse told me, in his peculiar style, why he had 
decided to leave his country and friends to help the 
American cause with his sword. M. de la Marche 
left for America at the time that Marcasse was 
making his annual rounds. He heard, in the vicinity 
of the count’s estates, wonderful stories of that 
far country, full of adventure, from which one never 
returned without such a quantity of gold and silver 
that it required ten vessels to carry it. Beneath 
Marcasse ’s calm exterior was concealed a glowing 
imagination, an inordinate love of the extraordi- 
nary, which was kindled by the descriptions of that 
Eldorado. What was, therefore, M. de la Marche’s 
surprise when on the night of his departure Marcasse 
presented himself and proposed to accompany him 


136 


MAUPRAT 


to America as his valet; in vain did M. de la Marche 
represent to him that he was too old to give up his 
profession, and take the chances of anew existence; 
Marcasse was firm in his determination. His de- 
parture was a great surprise to the inhabitants of 
La Varenne. Arrived in America, his master, ob- 
serving his longing for liberty, offered him a sum of 
money and letters of recommendation that he might 
join the army as a volunteer. Marcasse, cognizant 
of the state of his master’s finances, refused the 
money, accepted the letters, and set out. His in- 
tention was to go to Philadelphia, but by chance he 
heard that I was in the South, and thinking he 
would find in me a counselor, he had come to join 
me, on foot and alone, through a strange country 
full of perils of all kinds. His dress alone had 
suffered; his yellow face was unchanged. The only 
strange thing about him was that from time to 
time he looked behind him, as if to call some one — 
then he smiled and sighed at the same time. I could 
not resist asking him the cause of his uneasiness. 

“Alas!” said he, “habit cannot be overcome! 
A good dog! Poor dog!” 

“Blaireau is dead,” said I, “and you cannot be- 
come accustomed to the thought?” 

“Dead!” cried he; “no, thank God. Friend 
Patience — good friend! Blaireau happy — not sad, 
like his master — his master alone!” 


MAUPRAT 


137 


“If Blaireau is with Patience,” said Arthur, “he 
is happy indeed. Patience will cherish him for 
love of you, and certainly you will see your kind 
friend and faithful dog again!” 

Marcasse raised his eyes to the person who 
seemed so familiar with his life, but feeling sure 
that he had never seen him, he did as was his cus- 
tom when nonplussed— he saluted him respectfully. 

On my recommendation Marcasse was enrolled, 
and soon after he became a sergeant. This worthy 
man went through the campaign with me, and when 
in 1793 I passed beneath my country’s flag and 
rejoined the army of Rochambeau, he followed me, 
willing to share my lot to the end. 

At first he afforded us a source of amusement, but 
soon, by his brave conduct and intrepidity, he won 
the esteem of all, and I had cause to be proud of my 
protege. 

When, however, I talked to him of my cousin, he 
gave me little satisfaction; though he told me that 
there was no question of her marriage with any one. 
I fancied he was uneasy at being interrogated as if 
he h&d a secret to guard. Honor forbade me tell- 
ing him of my hopes. When near Arthur I inter- 
preted Edmee’s letters favorably; when separated 
from him my fears were aroused, and my sojourn in 
America weighed heavier and heavier upon me. 
My separation from Arthur took place when I left 


138 


MAUPRAT 


the American army to enter the service of the 
French general. 

I hailed peace which proclaimed the independence 
of the United States with delight, and set sail 
with my brave Marcasse, divided between feelings 
of sadness at leaving my old friend and feelings of 
joy at again meeting my only love. 


MAUPRAT 


139 


XVI 

We left Brest without sending a letter ahead of 
us. When we reached La Varenne we descended 
from the post-chaise and walked through the woods. 
As I beheld the venerable trees in the park my heart 
pulsated so violently that I was forced to halt. 

“Well!” said Marcasse, turning toward me with 
an air almost severe, as if to reproach me for my 
weakness. But a moment later I saw his face 
twitch with emotion. He started, on hearing a 
plaintive bark, on recognizing Blaireau; the faith- 
ful animal had scented his master from afar and 
had run to lay himself at his feet. After having 
been caressed, he started with the rapidity of light- 
ning toward Patience’s cottage. 

“Yes, go and warn him, good dog,” cried Mar- 
casse. He turned his head, and I saw two large 
tears rolling down the cheeks of the impassive 
hidalgo. 

We quickened our steps. Patience’s little cot- 
tage had undergone many improvements; the 
changes were so marked that I fancied we should 
not find Patience there. But Marcasse felt no 


140 


MAUPRAT 


fear; Blaireau had told him that the philosopher 
was alive. I followed him in silence down the 
walk, which seemed interminable, saying to my- 
self, “Edmee is perhaps there!” She was not, 
however, for I heard the recluse’s voice saying: 
“Down, Blaireau! are you mad? that is what one 
gets for spoiling folks!” 

“Blaireau is not mad,” said I, entering; “have 
you become deaf to the approach of a friend, Mas- 
ter Patience?” 

Patience approached me with his usual cordial- 
ity. I embraced him; he was surprised and pleased 
at my joy, and was examining me from head to 
foot when Marcasse appeared on the threshold. 

“Now I can die; my eyes have rested upon him 
whom I awaited.” 

The hidalgo made no reply, but seated himself 
on a chair, turned pale, and closed his eyes; he 
was faint. Patience poured him out some wine, 
and after swallowing a few drops, Marcasse re- 
vived; he excused his evident weakness by attribut- 
ing it to the heat and fatigue; he would not own 
its real cause. When he was restored, Patience 
said to me: 

“Ah, my officer, I see you do not care to stop 
here long.- Let us proceed then to the place you 
are eager to reach; they will be surprised and glad 
to see you.” 


MAUPRAT 


141 


As we crossed the park, Patience explained to 
us the change in his habitation and his life. 

“As for myself, you see that I am not changed,” 
he said. “The same man, the same habits! And 
though I offered you wine just now, I have not 
ceased drinking water. However, I have money, 
and lands, and workmen. It is all in spite of my- 
self, as you will see. About three years ago Mile. 
Edmee spoke to me of the trouble she had in be- 
stowing her charity upon those most deserving of 
it. The priest was as unskillful as she; she there- 
fore dispensed much money and did little good. 
I told her that money was not necessary to hap- 
piness; that what rendered people unhappy was not 
the impossibility of dressing as well as others, of 
going to the tavern on Sunday, of being able to say, 
‘My home, my cow, my granaries,’ but rather 
weakness of body, inclemency of weather, hunger 
and thirst. Most people are not philosophers like 
me; they are vain — they use the little they earn, 
they can deprive themselves of no pleasure; in short, 
they do not know how to control money, they take 
no thought of the morrow, they do not pay their 
debts with the money given them, but pay a high 
rate of interest and buy with your money something 
that will astonish and render their neighbors jealous. 
Their children have the same passions and van- 
ities as they. It is necessary that persons like you, 


142 


MAUPRAT 


who do so much charity, must bestow it without 
consulting the wishes of him who asks it after hav- 
ing found out his veritable needs. But Edmee’s 
objection to this was that she could not give up 
her entire time, for her father was feeble and could 
not spare her. To help her out of her difficulty, I 
promised to assist her, though it cost me many 
pangs to mingle with the people whom I had avoid- 
ed so studiously and who looked upon me with 
mistrust, but knowing of Edmee’s friendship for me 
they would not openly repulse me, and we found 
out what we desired to know. Thus was I dragged 
into the work, and now it is I who direct all the 
work and transact the business. I no longer walk 
abroad at night and sleep in the day-time. I am 
now ‘Monsieur Patience, ’ and not the sorcerer of 
Gazean Tower. These honors have not turned my 
head, and I assure you that when I have done 
what I can, I shall leave the cares of grandeur and 
return to the life of a philosopher, perhaps, to 
Gazean Tower — who knows!” 

We had in the meantime reached our destination. 

I hesitated to cross the threshold at first; when I 
did enter, I met Saint-Jean, who, not recognizing 
me, uttered an exclamation and barred the way, 
that I might not enter unannounced. I pushed 
him out of my way and reached the drawing-room 
door; but as I was about to push it noisily open, 


MAUPRAT 


143 


I paused and entered so softly that Edmee, who 
was embroidering, thought it was the respectful 
Saint-Jean. 

My uncle was asleep. I remained several mo- 
ments looking at my cousin as she bent over her 
work, pale, sad, but composed, the personification 
of filial duty; then I came forward and threw my- 
self at her feet in silence. She uttered no cry, but 
she encircled my neck with her arms and pressed 
my head upon her bosom. In that mute joy I 
recognized my sister. The knight started out of 
his sleep, his eyes staring, his elbows upon his 
knees, his body bent forward, saying: 

“Well, who is that?” 

He could not see my face hidden upon Edmee’s 
bosom; she turned me toward him, and he clasped 
me tenderly in his weak arms. You can imagine 
the questions I was overwhelmed with and the at- 
tention showered upon me. Edmee was quite 
maternal in her fondness, and during that entire day, 
while near her, I had no other thoughts than those 
I should have had had I been her son. But I will 
spare you more of those domestic scenes which my 
memory involuntarily recalls with so much pleasure. 

Mauprat — 10 


144 


MAUPRAT 


XVII 

A great change had taken place in me in the 
course of six years. Edmee seemed satisfied with 
the progress of my intellect and reason. 

“I am not astonished at it,” she said to me; “your 
letters forewarned me.” 

My uncle was no longer strong enough to enter 
into stormy debates. He did not conceal from me 
the fact that his greatest wish was to see me Ed- 
mee’s husband before he died, and when I replied 
that it was the only desire, the only ambition of 
my life, he said: 

“I know it, I know it! All depends upon her, 
and I do not think that she has any longer cause 
for hesitation; I do not see what she could find to 
bring forward now.” 

This speech implied a doubt which I could not 
clear up and which rendered me very uneasy. Ed- 
mee’s sensitive pride inspired me with fear; her 
ineffable kindness impressed me with such respect 
that I did not dare to inquire of her as to my fate. 
I conducted myself as if I had no other hope than 
that of being always her brother and friend. 


MAUPRAT 


145 


At first I refused to take possession of Roche- 
Mauprat. 

“It is absolutely necessary,” said my uncle, “that 
you should see the changes I have made in your 
estate. You must acquaint yourself with your busi- 
ness and show an interest in the work of your 
peasants. I am too old now to superintend mat- 
ters; for two years I have been confined to my 
room. Edmee is very practical, but she is afraid 
to venture into that place; it is a childish fancy!” 

“I know I should be more courageous,” said I, 
“but what you prescribe is the hardest thing in the 
world. I have not set foot in that miserable place 
since I helped Edmee to escape; it seems to me as 
if you were taking me from heaven to place me in 
hell.” 

The knight shrugged his shoulders;, the priest 
begged me to satisfy him. I yielded, and resolved 
to conquer myself; I took leave of Edmee for two 
days. The priest offered to accompany me, but I 
did not wish to take him from Edmee ’s side, for 
her life was very sad, a prisoner as she was in her 
father’s sick-room. 

Edmee’s obstinate refusals and M. de la Marche’s 
departure had caused much surprise and given rise 
to many surmises. It was rumored that Edmee 
had passed a night at Roche-Mauprat. Marked by 
that stigma she was not sought after by anybody. 


146 


MAUPRAT 


My absence had only served to confirm those sus- 
picions. I had saved her from death, they said, 
but not from shame, and could not make her my 
wife; I was in love with her, and fled from her in 
order to resist the temptation of marrying her. It 
all seemed so plausible that it was difficult to con- 
vince the public to the contrary. That was the 
cause of Edmee’s isolation. 

I took with me only my faithful sergeant, Mar- 
casse. We arrived at Roche-Mauprat on an au- 
tumn day. My companion and I passed through 
the woods and heather in silence; we took a round- 
about way in order to avoid the Gazean Tower, 
which I did not feel strong enough to see. I was 
received coldly by the peasants of Berry. I was 
installed in one of the buildings that had been left 
standing after the siege; it was a specimen of the 
massive architecture of the tenth century; the 
door was smaller than the windows, and the windows 
gave so little light that we had to use torches even 
when the sun was bright without. The building 
had been restored to serve as a temporary lodging 
for the new lord or his assistants. My uncle Hu- 
bert had often stopped there to watch my interests 
when he was in health, and I was shown to the 
room he had occupied, and which was henceforth 
called “the master’s room.” 

All the old furniture had been brought thither. 


MAUPRAT 


147 


All had been so changed that I recognized nothing, 
and could not tell in which of the buildings I was. 

The servant lighted a fire, while I sank into a 
chair, and burying my face in my hands, fell into a 
gloomy reverie. Marcasse had remained in the 
stable to care for our horses. Blaireau had fol- 
lowed me and was stretched in front of the fire- 
place, looking at me from time to time with a discon- 
tented air, as if to ask the cause of such a wretched 
lodging and such a poor fire. The fire-light illu- 
mined the room, giving it a doubtful and bizarre ap- 
pearance. Blaireau arose, turned his back to the 
fire and seated himself between my legs, as if await- 
ing something strange and unforeseen. I then 
discovered that that room was my grandfather 
Tristan's bed-chamber, occupied after his death 
by his eldest son, the detestable Jean, my most 
cruel oppressor. I was seized with a feeling of 
terror — the chair in which I sat was the one in 
which Jean had planned his roguish tricks. At 
that moment I saw passing before my eyes the 
specters of all the Mauprats with their blood-stained 
hands and bleared eyes. I arose and was about to 
fly, when I saw a face, so distinct, so familiar, that 
I fell back in my chair bathed in a cold perspira- 
tion. Jean Mauprat was standing by the bed, be- 
tween the hangings. He looked the same as ever, 
only that he was thinner, paler, and more hideous; 


148 


MAUPRAT 


his head was shaved and his form was wrapped in 
a dark shroud. He cast upon me a fiendish glance; 
a hateful and scornful smile hovered about his 
thin lips. He stood there motionless, his spark- 
ling eyes fixed upon me, as if he were about to 
speak. I was paralyzed with fear. Blaireau rushed 
upon him as I fainted. 

When I revived Marcasse was by my side. I 
had difficulty in collecting my thoughts. As soon 
as I could stand up, I seized Marcasse and hastily 
drew him out of the horrible room. I only breathed 
freely when we reached the court-yard. I did not 
then hesitate to attribute what had taken place to 
a fancy of my brain. I had proved my courage in 
battle, and I did not blush to avow the truth to my 
sergeant. I answered his questions frankly, and 
described to him my vision in so decided a manner 
that he was impressed by it himself, and repeated 
several times thoughtfully: 

“Singular! singular! astonishing!” 

I struggled for several days to overcome the 
•repugnance I felt at returning to Roche-Mauprat, 
and would have left the place had I not feared to 
offend my uncle. 

“Tell me,” said Marcasse, “did you notice Blai- 
reau — what did Blaireau do?” 

“I thought Blaireau rushed upon the phantom just 
as it disappeared — but I dreamed that like the rest.” 





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MAUPRAT 


140 


“Hum!” said the sergeant; “when I entered 
Blaireau was all excitement; he went from you to 
me, whined, and scratched the wall. Singular! 
Astonishing, Captain, astonishing!” 

After several moments of reflection, he cried, 
shaking his head: 

“No ghosts, no ghosts! Why dead, Jean? Not 
dead! Two more Mauprats — who knows? No 
ghosts! My master mad? No! 111? No!” 

After that soliloquy the sergeant took a light, 
drew his sword, whistled to Blaireau, and bidding 
me remain below, he proceeded on his way to the 
chamber. Much as I disliked the idea of return- 
ing to it, I did not hesitate to follow Marcasse in 
spite of his advice, and our first care was to exam- 
ine the bed; but while we were talking in the court 
the servant had put on clean sheets and smoothed 
the coverlet. 

“Who has slept there?” asked Marcasse. 

“No one but M. de Mauprat or M. Aubert.” 

“But to-day or yesterday, for example?” persist- 
ed Marcasse. 

“No one, sir; for it is two years since M. de 
Mauprat was here, and of late M. Aubert has 
breakfasted here and returned at night.” 

“But the bed had been slept in,” said Marcasse, 
staring fixedly at her. 

“It may be,” she replied, “that it was rumpled; 


150 


MAUPRAT 


I do not know how it was left the last time. I did 
not notice it much on changing the bed-clothes; 
all that I know is that M. Bernard's cloak lay up- 
on it.” 

“My cloak!” I exclaimed; “it is in the stable.” 

“And mine too,” said Marcasse; “I rolled them 
up and put them on the oat-bin.” 

“You have two then,” insisted the servant, “for 
I took one from the bed — a black cloak, not a new 
one either.” 

“Mine is lined with red and bordered with gold 
lace; Marcasse’ s is gray.” 

“What did you do with it?” asked the serjeant. 

“My faith, sir, I put it on the easy-chair,” re- 
plied the woman; “you must have taken it away 
when I went in search of a candle. I do not see 
it anywhere.” 

We searched the entire room, but could not find 
it. When we were assured that the servants had 
not lodged nor seen any one, we told them that 
Marcasse had carelessly rolled the cloak up with 
the others, and we locked ourselves in the room to 
explore at our ease — for it was evident that I had 
not seen a specter, but Jean Mauprat himself, or a 
man who resembled him and whom I had taken 
for him. Marcasse set Blaireau upon the trail. 
The dog having smelt everywhere, persisted in 
scratching the wall on the side upon which I had 


MAUPRAT 


151 


seen the apparition. Marcasse examined the walls 
and the wood-work; in vain did he sound the panels. 
At length he turned to me and said: 

“We are foolish; were we to search until dooms- 
day we could not find a spring if there were none.” 

“Why,” I asked, “for the simple reason that 
your dog scratches the wall, do you persist in be- 
lieving that Jean Mauprat, or the man who looks 
like him, did not enter and leave by the door?” 

“Granted that he entered that way,” said Mar- 
casse; “but when the servant came down-stairs I 
was on the staircase brushing my shoes — when I 
heard a fall up here I rushed up and found you 
stretched upon the floor — no one within nor with- 
out.” 

“In that case I must have dreamed of my uncle, 
and the servant of my cloak, for surely there is no 
secret door; and if there were one, and all the 
Mauprats living and dead had the key of it, what 
would it concern us? Are we detectives to spy 
upon those wretches? If we should find them con- 
cealed anywhere, would we not aid them to fly, 
rather than deliver them up to justice? We have 
our arms; we do not fear that they will assassinate 
us to-night. So let us eat the omelet which these 
good people have prepared for us, for if we contin- 
ue to knock on the walls they will think us crazy.” 

Marcasse insisted upon remaining in the haunted 


152 


MAUPRAT 


room with me, giving as his excuse that I might be 
taken ill again. 

After supper, the wine having loosened my tongue 
I told him of my hopes and fears. We fell asleep 
as we talked, Blaireau at his master’s feet, the 
sword beside the hidalgo, the light between us, my 
pistols at my elbow, my hunting-knife under my 
pillow, and the bolts drawn. Nothing disturbed 
our rest; when we awoke, I asked: 

“Did you see or hear anything in the night?” 

“Nothing at all,” he replied; “but just the same, 
Blaireau did not sleep well and nothing has been 
explained.” 

“I shall not trouble about it, certainly,” replied I. 

“Wrong! you are wrong!” 

“That may be; but I do not like this room, and 
the sooner I get out of it the better.” 

“Very well, I will go with you; but I shall return. 

\ shall not let the matter rest. I know what 
Jean Mauprat is capable of, and you do not.” 

“I do not wish to know; and if there is any dan- 
ger here to me or mine, I do not want you to 
return.” 

Marcasse shook his head, but did not make any 
reply. Before leaving we made another circuit of 
the estate. Marcasse was struck by an occurrence 
to which I attached no importance. The steward 
wanted to present me to his wife, but she ran into 


MAUPRAT 


153 


the hemp-field. I laid her timidity to the bash- 
fulness of youth. 

“My faith, nice youth!” said Marcasse; “she is 
as young as I am, and that is past fifty! There is 
something at the bottom of that, I tell you.” 

“What can it be?” 

“Hem! — she was very friendly with Jean Mau- 
prat in his time! Ah, believe me, I know many 
things!” 

“You can tell me them when we come here again, 
which will not be very soon. To oblige me, Mar- 
casse, do not mention to any one what has taken 
place here. Every one has not the same esteem 
for your captain as you have.” 

“He must be a fool who does not esteem my cap- 
tain; but if you command me, I will be silent.” 

He kept his word. 

For naught in the world would I have troubled 
Edmee with that story. 

I could not, however, restrain Marcasse from put- 
ting his plans into execution. The following morn- 
ing he disappeared, and I learned from Patience 
that he had returned to Roche-Mauprat under the 
pretext of having forgotten something. 


154 


MAUPRAT 


XVIII 

While Marcasse was absent I spent alternate 
days of delight and anguish by Edmee’s side. Her 
conduct kept me in constant doubt. One day the 
knight had a long conference with her when I was 
out for a walk; I entered just as their conversation 
was the most animated; when I appeared my uncle 
said to me: 

“Approach! tell Edmee that you love her, that 
you will make her happy, that you have corrected 
your faults. Come to some agreement, for this must 
be settled. Our position relative to the world is 
insupportable, and I do not wish to descend to my 
grave without seeing my daughter’s honor vindicat- 
ed, and without knowing that she will not foolishly 
enter a convent instead of occupying the position 
which is hers and which I have worked all my life 
to assure. Come, Bernard, to her feet! Persuade 
her, or I shall believe that you do not love her and 
do not sincerely desire to marry her!” 

“I? Great heavens!” I cried; “when I have had 
no other thought for seven years — when my heart 
has known no other wish!” 


MAUPRAT 


155 


I poured forth a flood of passionate words. Ed- 
mee listened to them in silence without withdraw- 
ing her hands, which I covered with kisses. But 
her face was grave and her voice trembled as she 
said, after some reflection: 

“My father should not doubt my word. I have 
promised to marry Bernard; I have promised Ber- 
nard and my father; I shall surely marry him.” Then 
she added, after another pause, in a tone of more 
severity: “But if my father is about to die, what 
power could force me to don my wedding-gown on 
the eve of his death? If, on the contrary, he is as 
I think, still strong, why does he so urgently press 
me to shorten the time I have asked him to grant 
me? should not such a step be well weighed — that 
is, all its risks and advantages?” 

“Great Lord! you have thought it over for seven 
years,” said the knight. “If you wish to marry 
Bernard, marry him; if not, say so — that some one 
else may sue for you ” 

“Father,” replied Edmee, coldly, “I will marry 
none but him.” 

“‘But him’ is all very well; but perhaps that 
means you will not marry him!” 

“I will, father,” replied Edmee; “I only asked 
several months more of freedom; but since you are 
dissatisfied, I am ready to obey your orders.” 

“That is a fine way to consent, and very pleasant 


158 


MAUPRAT 


for your cousin. My faith, Bernard, I am an old 
man, but I tell you I have never been able to un- 
derstand women, and probably I shall die without 
doing so.” 

“Uncle,” said I, “I understand my cousin’s re- 
luctance with regard to me; I have merited it. I 
have, it is true, done all in my power to make 
amends for my errors, but can she so easily forget 
a past in which she has suffered so much? If she 
cannot forgive me I will, renouncing all hope in 
this world, go far away from her and you, to pun- 
ish myself by a chastisement worse than death.” 

“There, all is at an end!” cried my uncle; “is 
that what you want, my girl?” 

I took several steps toward the door. I was 
agonized. Edmee ran to me, seized my arm, and 
leading me to her father, she said: 

“Your words are cruel and ungrateful! Do you 
wish to return my motherly interest in you by leav- 
ing me?” 

“No, Edmee; I feel that you have done for me 
more than I deserve. Do not let us speak of this 
any more. Give me your love; I hope to prove 
myself worthy of it in the future!” 

“Embrace each other,” said the knight. “Ber- 
nard, no matter what Edmee’s caprices, never desert 
her if you wish to receive your adopted father’s 
blessing. If you cannot become her husband, be 


M A UP RAT 


157 

to her always a brother. Remember, my boy, that 
she will soon be alone on earth, and that I should 
die in despair, did I not know that she would have 
a protector here; remember that on your account, 
owing to her vow made to you, she has been calum- 
niated.” 

The knight burst into tears. 

“Enough, enough!” I cried, falling at his feet. 
“I feel that Edmee must not marry me; it would be 
to acknowledge the injury I have drawn upon her. 
I will remain here. I will never see her if she 
demand that of me, but I will sleep beside her 
door like a faithful dog, and I will tear into pieces 
any one who would dare to present himself to her 
except upon his knees; and if some day a man, more 
honorable than I am, gains her affection, I will be 
her friend, her brother, and when I have seen them 
happy together, I will die far from them, in peace.” 

Sobs choked my utterance; my uncle pressed 
his daughter and me to his breast, and we mingled 
our tears, swearing that we would not be separated 
during his life-time nor after his death. 

“Do not give up hope of winning her,” the knight 
whispered to me several moments later; “she has 
strange fancies, but nothing will ever convince me 
that she does not love you.” 

A few days after this I was walking in the park 
with the priest. 


158 


MAUPRAT 


“I must tell you,” said he, “of an adventure 
which befell me yesterday and which is quite ro- 
mantic. I had been roaming in the woods at Brian- 
tes and descended to the spring at Fougeres. My 
head was bent and I was walking on the wet peb- 
bles, guided by the sound of the trickling of the 
clear stream from the heart of the rock. I was 
about to seat myself on the stone which forms a 
natural seat beside it, when I saw that the place 
was already occupied by a monk whose hood partly 
concealed his pale and withered face. He seemed 
startled on seeing me. I reassured him as well as 
I could by telling him that it was not my intention 
to disturb him, but only to obtain a drink of water. 

“Struck by the monk’s humble manner, his mel- 
ancholy air, his dreamy attitude in that poetical spot 
on which I had often pictured the meeting between 
the Samaritan and the Savior, I took quite an 
interest in talking with him, and learned that he 
was a Trappist (a religious order of monks receiv- 
ing its name from La Trappe, in Normandy, where 
they occupy an abbey), and that he was making a 
pilgrimage in order to do penance. 

“ ‘Do nota sk me my name nor my country, ’ said 
he. ‘I belong to an illustrious family which would 
blush to think of my existence; moreover, on enter- 
ing our order we abjure all pride in the past— we 
die in the world in order to be born again in Jesus 


MAUPRAT 150 

Christ. But you may be sure that you see in me 
one of the most striking examples of the miracles 
of mercy, and if I could tell you the story of my 
religious life, you would surely be touched by it. ’ 
“You know,” continued the priest, “that I do not 
like monks, that I mistrust their humility, that I 
have a horror of their idleness; but this one spoke 
in such a sorrowful and touching strain, he seemed 
so impressed with his duties, so full of repentance, 
that he won my heart. We spent two hours to- 
gether. In vain did I try to induce him to come to 
the castle; he had engaged lodging for the night. 
He said he had a traveling companion whom he 
could not leave. 

“ ‘But since you are so kind,’ said he, ‘I shall be 
happy to meet you here to-morrow at sunset; per- 
haps I may make so bold as to ask a favor of you; 
you can be useful to me in an important matter I 
have on hand in this part of the country. I can 
tell you no more at present. ’ 

“I assured him that he might count upon me, that 
I would willingly oblige a man like him.” 

“So you are awaiting with impatience the hour 
of meeting?” said I to the priest. 

“Undoubtedly,” he replied; “my new acquaint- 
ance has so much attraction for me that if I did not 
fear to abuse the confidence imposed in me, I 
would take Edmee to the spring.” 

Mauprat — 1 1 


160 


MAUPRAT 


“I think,” I made answer, “that Edmeecan em- 
ploy her time to better advantage than by listening 
to your monk’s stories — probably he is a humbug, 
like so many others to whom you have shown kind- 
ness.” 

The priest smiled, and we strolled along to Pa- 
tience’s cottage. The hour arrived for the priest 
to keep his appointment; as we neared the place of 
meeting he seemed somewhat uncertain, and I com- 
menced to make sport of him with the privilege of 
friendship. 

“Come,” said he, “you shall see and study him 
for several moments; but you must retire until I 
have listened to his confidences.” 

As we approached I saw the monk through the 
interlacing branches of an enormous ash which 
shaded the spring; from that point we could ex- 
amine him at our ease. Scarcely had I seen him 
than I laughed bitterly, grasped the priest’s arm, 
and said to him in agitation: “My dear sir, have 
you ever seen my uncle Jean Mauprat’s face?” 

“Never to my knowledge,” replied he; “but 
what do you mean?” 

“I mean to tell you, my friend, that your vener- 
able and pious monk is no other than Jean de Mau- 
prat, the cut-throat.” 

“You are mad,” he cried; “Jean Mauprat has 
been dead a long time.” 


MAUPRAT 


161 


“Jean Mauprat is not dead, nor Antoine Mauprat 
either perhaps, and I am less surprised than you for 
I have already met one of those two ghosts. That 
he has become a monk and repents of his sins is 
barely possible; but that he has disguised himself in 
order to carry out some evil design is not at all im- 
probable, and I beg of you to be upon your guard.” 

The priest was so much startled that he did not 
wish to keep his appointment. Knowing the priest’s 
weakness, 1 crept into the brush-wood in order to 
see and hear what was going on. But matters did 
not take the turn I thought they would. The 
monk divulged his name to the priest. He con- 
fessed that, being penitent and not being able to 
atone sufficiently for his misdeeds, he was about to 
give himself up into the hands of the law in order 
to expiate publicly his crimes. The man, endowed 
with superior faculties, had acquired in the cloister 
a mystic eloquence. The priest tried to combat a 
resolution which seemed to him absurd. But he 
replied that, having committed crimes of pagan 
barbarity, he could only redeem his soul at the 
cost of a public penitence worthy of the early 
Christians. 

“Since you persist in that determination,” said 
the priest to him, “will you at least tell me in what 
you thought I could aid you?” 

“I cannot do that,” replied the monk, “without 


162 


MAUPRAT 


the authority of a man who will soon be the last of 
the Mauprats. I must speak with Bernard Mau- 
prat — I will not say my nephew, for were he to 
hear me he would blush for the relationship. I 
heard of his return from America, and that news 
decided me to undertake this journey.” 

“May I ask what you have in common to-day 
with that young man? Are you not afraid that, em- 
bittered by the ill-treatment received by him at 
Roche-Mauprat, he will refuse to see you?” 

“I am certain he will refuse; but I hope that 
you will induce him to grant me that interview, for 
you are kind and generous, sir. You have promised 
to oblige me; moreover, you are his friend, and you 
will make him understand that it concerns his in- 
terest and the honor of his name.” 

“How is that? Undoubtedly he will be adverse 
to your appearing before a public tribunal; he will 
surely demand of you to renounce that expiation; 
how could you hope that he would consent?” 

“I hope it because God is great and good, be- 
cause he will soften the heart of him who listens to 
the outpourings of a truly repentant soul. More- 
over, it is necessary that I die at peace with those 
I have offended. I must fall at Bernard Mauprat’s 
feet that he may forgive my sins. My tears will 
move him, or if he scorn those, I shall at least 
have done my duty.” 


MAUPRAT 


163 


Seeing that he talked with the certainty of being 
overheard by me. I was disgusted; I saw through 
his hypocrisy. 

When the priest joined me, we decided not to 
tell the knight and Edmee of the adventure, lest 
they might be rendered uneasy by it. 


MAUPRAT 


104 


XIX 

After having maturely reflected upon the monk’s 
probable intentions, I determined to accord him 
the asked-for interview. He could not injure me 
by his acts, and I would do what I could to prevent 
my uncle from being annoyed by his intrigues. 

Therefore, the following day after vespers I en- 
tered the village and rang the bell at the Carmelite 
monastery, the retreat chosen by the Trappist. 

I was greeted by the prior, who was a prisoner 
in his chair, chained there by gout. That man of- 
fered a strange contrast to the venerable knight, 
who, though pale and suffering, was noble and patri- 
archal in his melancholy. The prior was short, fat, 
and very petulant. The upper part of his body was 
free; he turned his head quickly from side to side; 
he gesticulated wildly when he issued orders. He 
received me with exaggerated politeness and said: 

“I know, my dear child, the object which brings 
you; you have come to pay your respects to your 
relative, the Trappist, whom God sent to us to 
serve as an example to the world and to show 
forth a miracle of grace,” 


MAUPRAT 


165 


“Sir,” I replied, “I am not a good enough Chris- 
tian to appreciate the miracle of which you speak. 

I am here because M. Jean de Mauprat desires to 
inform me of matters which concern me and to 
which I am ready to listen — if you will permit me 
to see him.” 

“I did not wish him to see you before I did, 
young man; I have a boon to ask of you in the 
name of charity, of the blood that flows in your 
veins. You are a man of the world, I know. You 
have much to complain of against him who once 
was Jean de Mauprat, but who to-day is the hum- 
ble brother, Jean-Nepomucene; if you feel no 
pity for him, considerations of public decency and 
of family pride should make you join me in trying 
to turn him from his pious resolutions, and you will, 
I do not doubt.” 

“Perhaps, sir,” said I coldly; “but may I ask 
you to what motives our family owes the interest 
you seem to take in its affairs?” 

“To the spirit of charity which animates all the 
servants of Christ,” replied the prior with well- 
simulated dignity. 

In the course of conversation I gathered this 
much: My uncle Jean reclaimed from me his por- 
tion of the fief of Roche-Mauprat, and the prior was 
commissioned to tell me that I must choose be- 
tween disbursing a considerable sum or a suit which 


166 


MAUPRAT 


he proposed to commence, the exposure of which 
would not fail to shorten the knight’s days and 
bring upon me personal embarrassment. All this 
was insinuated under the pretense of the most 
christian-like solicitude for me and fervent admira- 
tion for the Trappist’s zeal. 

I saw clearly that Jean Mauprat did not ask of 
me the means of subsistence, but that I would have 
to beg him to accept a portion of my fortune to 
prevent him from dragging my name, and perhaps 
myself, into the criminal courts. 

“So you, sir, are going to try to change that res- 
olution. I admire your zeal and I thank you, but 
I do not think that so many negotiations are nec- 
essary. M. Jean de Mauprat reclaims his por- 
tion of the inheritance; nothing is more just. You 
know, however, that I only owe the enjoyment of 
my fortune to my uncle Hubert de Mauprat’s kind- 
ness; that he has paid all the family debts, which 
were enormous; that I can give away nothing with- 
out his permission; that I am only the trustee of a 
fortune which I have not as yet accepted.” 

“Ah,” he said, “very well. It seems that I was 
mistaken, and that one must apply to M. Hubert de 
Mauprat. I shall do so, for I do not doubt that 
he will be pleased to prevent a scandal in his 
family.” 

“I understand, sir,” I replied, “that you mean that 


MAUPRAT 


167 


for a threat. I will answer you in the same tone. 
If M. Jean de Mauprat persecutes my uncle and 
cousin, he will have to deal with me. If he is 
without resources, and requires aid, I will give 
him from my own income the means of living hum- 
bly according to his vows; but if ambition actuates 
him to intimidate my uncle by menace, I will de- 
fend him at the peril of my honor and life.” 

“You must know, my dear sir, that I do not ap- 
prove of your relative’s plan, and would do anything 
in the world to hinder him. Believe me, I desire 
peace. I am a good man.” 

“Yes, a very good man,” I replied ironically. “If 
true religion urges brother Jean the Trappist to a 
public reparation, it will be easy to make him un- 
derstand that he must not do it, for he would drag 
others into the abyss with him; but if, as I suppose, 
M. Jean de Mauprat has not the least desire to 
surrender into the hand of the law, his threats do 
not frighten me, and I will prevent them from in- 
timidating anyone else.” 

“Is that all I can tell him?” 

“That is all, though I am surprised that after ex- 
pressing such an earnest desire to see me, he should 
noJ appear when I arrive.” 

“Sir,” said the prior with absurd dignity, “my 
duty is to see that peace reigns in this holy place. 


168 


MAUPRAT 


I oppose all interviews that can lead to violent 
scenes.” 

With many thanks for his kindness in acting as 
a medium, I bowed low and withdrew. 


MAUPRAT 


189 


XX 

I related to the priest, who awaited me at Pa- 
tience’s cottage, the details of that conference, and 
he was of my opinion, that the prior, far from seek- 
ing to turn the Trappist from his ostensible designs 
was doing all in his power to egg him on to obtain 
large sums of money from me; to place in the 
hands of a monkish Mauprat the fruits of the la- 
bors and savings of a secular Mauprat. 

“But they will be revenged upon you, I fear; 
do not shrug your shoulders; one should always 
fear a coward, for he will strike from behind when 
one expects a blow from the front.” 

Devising plans for the prevention of a meeting 
between the supposed monk and the knight, we 
reached the castle. 

I was possessed with a sense of uneasiness upon 
entering that silent abode. As I crossed the bill- 
iard-room I thought I saw a dark shadow pass 
the window and vanish in the twilight. I hastily 
pushed open the drawing-room door and halted 
there; all was silent. I was about to retire and 
seek Edmee in her father’s room, when I thought 


170 


MAUPRAT 


I saw something white move near the chimney 
where the knight always sat. 

“Edmee, are you here?” I cried. No one re- 
plied. The cold perspiration started upon my brow 
and my limbs trembled. Ashamed of such weak- 
ness, I rushed toward the fire-place, anxiously call- 
ing Edmee’s name. 

“Is it you, Bernard?” I heard at length in trem- 
ulous tones. I clasped her in my arms; she was 
kneeling beside her father’s chair, pressing her lips 
to his cold hands. 

“Great God!” I exclaimed, distinguishing the 
knight’s livid face in the dim light; “is our father 
dead?” 

“It may be,” said she in a whisper; “perhaps, 
please God, he has only fainted. Light, for heav- 
en’s sake; ring the bell! He has only been in this 
condition an instant.” 

I rang at once; the priest joined us and we suc- 
ceeded in reviving my uncle. But when he opened 
his eyes his mind seemed struggling with the im- 
pressions of a painful dream. 

“Is that terrible phantom gone?” he cried several 
times. “Here, Saint-Jean, my pistols! Throw that 
fellow out of the window!” 

“What has happened?” I asked Edmee; “who 
has been here during my absence?” 

“Were I to tell you,” replied Edmee; “you would 





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MAUPRAT 


171 


scarcely believe it; you would accuse my father 
and me of being fanciful. I will tell you soon 
though; now let us attend to my father.” 

By tender words and caresses she calmed the old 
man; we then bore him to his room. When he 
was gone, Edmee proceeded to tell the priest and 
me her adventure. 

She said that about fifteen minutes before our 
return a mendicant friar had entered the room in 
which she sat at her needle- work by her father’s 
side. Not at all surprised by' that common occur- 
rence, she arose to take her purse from the mantel- 
piece, addressing kind and sympathetic words to the 
monk; but just as she turned to hand him her alms, 
the knight started from his sleep, and cried, as he 
examined the man with an air at once incensed 
and terrified: 

“Sir, what are you doing here in this garb?” 

Edmee then looked at the monk’s face and rec- 
ognized — “Whom? — you would never guess!” said 
she — “that horrible Jean Mauprat! I saw him 
but one hour, yet I have never forgotten that re- 
pulsive face. I could not restrain an exclamation of 
terror. 

“‘Do not be frightened,’ said he, with a grin; 
‘I do not come as an enemy, but as a suppli- 
cant. ’ 

“He fell upon his knees near my father, and in a 


172 


MAUPRAT 


mournful voice began to repeat a formula of con- 
fession, asking pardon for his offenses. 

“ ‘This miserable man is mad,’ cried my father, 
pulling the bell-cord. No one answered his sum- 
mons, and we were forced to listen to the strange 
discourse. He had come, before yielding in expia- 
tion of his crimes to the secular sword, to ask my 
father’s forgiveness and blessing. 

“As he talked he neared my father upon his knees. 
I was inspired with a feeling of disgust, and com- 
manded him imperiously to rise. He turned 
toward me, and though he tried to hide it, I noticed 
a sparkle of anger in his eyes. 

“My father attempted to rise, but fell back in his 
cha : r exhausted; steps were heard in the billiard- 
room, and the monk passed through the open win- 
dow with the rapidity of lightning.” 

“The abominable coward did not lose much time, 
you see!” I exclaimed to the priest; “he has suc- 
ceeded in his plan of intimidating my uncle and his 
daughter; but he has not reckoned upon me; if he 
ever dares to come here again — ” 

“Be silent, Bernard, you make me tremble; tell 
me what all this means?” 

When I told her of my experience she reproached 
me for not having warned her. 

“I should not then have been afraid; I should 
have taken care not to be left alone with my father. 


MAUPRAT 


173 


Now I shall be upon my guard. But the princi- 
pal thing, dear Bernard, is to avoid all contact 
with that odious man, and to give him alms enough 
to rid us of him. You must not leave me again 
though, for I need you.” 

The next day the priest, at my express wish, set 
out for the convent to admonish the Trappist that 
if he ever came to the castle again I would have 
him thrown out of the window. I proposed to 
him to provide handsomely for his wants on con- 
dition that he leave at once and never set foot 
again in Berry. To his surprise, the enemy had 
changed his tactics. He indignantly refused all 
assistance, emphatically blaming his host, the prior, 
for having presumed to propose an exchange of 
eternal benefits for perishable ones. 

Days and weeks passed by; the monk appeared 
neither at the castle nor in its neighborhood. 
Each morning some new virtue, some new act of 
austerity, of that holy personage was reported. He 
obstinately refused a thousand small gifts brought 
him by the devotees who wished to see him. At 
times he concealed himself so well that it was re- 
ported he had gone away, but at the moment when 
we were congratulating ourselves on being rid of 
him, we heard that he was inflicting frightful morti- 
fications upon himself or that he had been walking 
barefooted through the wildest, most neglected 


174 


MAUPRAT 


portions of La Varenne. It was even rumored 
that he could work miracles; if the prior was not 
cured of gout it was because he did not wish to be, 
from a sense of penitence. 

Our uncertainty was of two months duration. 


MAUPRAT 


175 


XXI 

Those days of intimacy were to me blissful, yet 
tormenting. To see Edmee at all times — for she 
summoned me to her side to read to her, to con- 
verse with her, to help her care for her father, to 
be a part of her life as if I were her brother — was 
indeed a great yet dangerous delight, for the volcano 
was being rekindled in my bosom. Several con- 
fused words, several troubled glances, betrayed me. 
Edmee was inscrutable; her dark eyes, resting up- 
on me with the same solicitude with which they 
rested upon her father, suddenly grew cold when 
the violence of my passion was about to burst forth. 
Her face expressed only curiosity and a steady pur- 
pose to penetrate the depths of my soul, but only 
allowing me to see the surface of hers. 

I delighted in my sufferings at first, for it pleased 
me to offer them to Edmee in expiation of my past 
failings. I hoped she would divine them and be 
pleased; she did not remark upon them, however. 
My trouble increased. After a night of anguish I 
wrote her a senseless letter 4 , worded thus: 

“You do not love me, Edmee; you will never love 

Mauprat — 12 


176 


MAUPRAT 


me — I know it. I ask nothing, I hope for nothing. 
I will remain near you, to consecrate my life to 
your service, your protection. I will do all in my 
power to be useful to you, but I shall suffer, and 
though I try to hide it, you will see it, and will per- 
haps attribute to other causes a sadness I cannot 
suppress. You wounded me deeply yesterday, by 
telling me to go out for diversion. Diversion 
away from you, Edmee? What bitter raillery! 
Do not be cruel, my poor sister, for then you be- 
come once more my imperious betrothed of those 
unhappy, by-gone days — and in spite of myself I 
shall become the brigand you detested. Ah, if you 
knew how unhappy I am! There are within rne two 
men struggling incessantly and mortally — it is to be 
hoped that the brigand will succumb. If you knew, 
Edmee, what struggles, what combats, what tears of 
blood my heart distills and what transports are often 
aroused in that portion of my soul governed by re- 
bellious spirits! Oh, heavens! in what disorder are 
my thoughts! Have pity upon me! Be patient; 
permit me to be sad, and never doubt my devotion. 
I am often mad, but I always love you. One 
word, one look from you, recalls my sense of duty. 
As I write to you, Edmee, the sky is overcast with 
dark and heavy clouds, the thunder roars, the 
lightning flashes! Ah, had my voice the power of 
the tempest, that I might express to you my agony 


MAUPRAT 


177 


and my doubts! You have crushed me, but I sub- 
mit, and do not try to raise the foot which the 
haughty conqueror has placed upon my fainting 
breast.” 

The remainder of the letter, which was discon- 
nected and absurd from beginning to end, was writ- 
ten in the same strain. 

It was not the first time I had written to Edmee, 
although living under the same roof with her, but 
this particular letter was bolder and more impas- 
sioned than any of my earlier effusions. After de- 
scending to the drawing-room and slipping it into 
Edmee’ s work-basket, I returned and cast myself 
upon the bed. Edmee did not seem to have found it, 
for she did not reply. I expected it would bring 
about a decisive explanation. I suspected the priest 
of having destroyed it; I accused Edmee of harsh- 
ness and contempt. 

The following day the weather was fine; my un- 
cle took a drive, and on the way he told us that he 
did not wish to die without having once more wit- 
nessed a fox-hunt. He was passionately fond of 
that diversion, and his health was so much improved 
that his desires could be indulged. Since the Trap- 
pist’s visit the knight seemed to have taken a new 
lease of life. As he insisted upon his project, 
Edmee and I promised to co-operate in organizing 
a company and to take an active part in the hunt 


178 


MAUPRAT 


ourselves. It was the old man’s chief delight to 
see her upon horseback, caracoling around his car- 
riage and handing him all the blossoming branches 
she could break from the bushes as she passed. 

It was decided that I should escort my cousin 
and that the priest accompany my uncle in the 
carriage. A repast was to be prepared for our re- 
turn. Marcasse, whom I had appointed my steward 
at Roche-Mauprat, and who understood the science 
of a fox-hunt, spent two whole days in stopping up 
the burrows. Several neighboring farmers, inter- 
ested in the hunt and capable of giving good ad- 
vice, joined our party, and Patience, notwithstand- 
ing his prejudice against such sport, consented to 
follow as an amateur. 

On the day appointed, which was warm and bright, 
fifty persons turned out with horns, horses, and 
dogs. Each of us was armed with a gun, and my 
uncle took one to aim from his carriage. For the 
first two hours Edmee, mounted on a pretty little 
mare, rambled along beside the carriage from which 
the knight gazed upon her affectionately. Then, 
yielding to her father’s reiterated requests, she gal- 
loped off, inspired by the martial spirit of her family. 

“Follow her, follow her!” cried the knight to me, 
for he no sooner saw her ride off than his paternal 
vanity was replaced by uneasiness. I did not 
need to be urged, and spurring on my horse, I 


MAUPRAT 


179 


joined Edmee in a cross-road which she had taken 
in order to meet the hunters. I trembled as I saw 
her horse, excited by her, carry her into the midst - 
of the copse with the swiftness of a flash of light- 
ning. 

“Edmee! for God’s sake,” I called to her, “do 
not ride so fast; you will kill yourself!” 

“Let me ride,” she said gayly; “my father has 
given me permission. Leave me in peace, I say — 

I will rap your fingers if you stop my horse.” 

“Let me at least follow you,” said I; “your father 
asked me to, and I should kill myself were any mis- 
fortune to happen to you.” 

Why was I possessed with such sinister 
thoughts — I who had so often seen Edmee ride in the 
woods? I was in a peculiar condition — the heat had 
inflamed my brain, my nerves were strangely un- 
strung. Before setting out I had drunk several’ 
cups of coffee flavored with rum. At first I was 
frightened, then fear gave place to an inexplicable 
feeling of love and joy. My excitement became so 
uncontrollable that I felt as if I had no other aim 
than to pursue Edmee. One would have taken 
her for a fairy appearing in that wild spot to entice 
men to her perfidious retreat. I forgot the chase 
and all else; I saw only Edmee. My eyes grew 
dim — still I rode on. I was in a state of mute 
frenzy when she halted abruptly. 


180 


M A UP RAT 


“What shall we do?” she asked; “I do' not hear 
the huntsmen, and I see the river. We have 
struck out too far to the left.” 

“On the contrary, Edmee,” said I, not knowing 
what I was giving utterance to, “another gallop 
and we will be with them.” 

“How red your face is!” she cried. “But how 
will we cross the river?” 

“Since there is a road, there must be a ford,” I 
replied. “On, on!” I cried. I was possessed with 
a mania to ride. 

Edmee made a gesture of impatience. “These 
woods are horrible; I always lose my way,” said 
she. Without doubt she recalled the day upon 
which she had been conducted to Roche-Mauprat, 
for I thought of it too. Mechanically I followed 
Edmee toward the river. Suddenly she was on the 
other side. I was furious on finding that her horse 
was more agile and courageous than mine. I 
spurred on my steed cruelly, and after several nar- 
row escapes I reached the shore and started in Ed- 
mee’s wake in blind fury. I overtook her, and seiz- 
ing her mare’s bridle, I cried: 

“Stop, Edmee, I say! Do not go any farther!” 

With those words I shook the reins so roughly 
that her horse reared. She lost her balance, and 
in order to save herself a fall, she lightly slipped 
between the two horses. I was on foot as quickly 


MAUPRAT 


181 


2 s she was, and pushed back the horses. Edmee’s, 
which was very gentle, began to browse; mine dis- 
appeared. This was all the work of an instant. 
I caught Edmee in my arms; she freed herself and 
said sharply: 

“You are very rough, Bernard! What ails you?” 

In my confusion I cold her that I feared her mare 
was about to run away. 

“And to save me you caused me to fall at the 
risk of killing me,” she replied; “that was very kind 
indeed.” 

“Let me reseat you,” said I. And without 
awaiting permission, I took her in my arms and 
lifted her from the ground. 

“You know very well that I do not mount that 
way,” she cried angrily. “Leave me; I do not re- 
quire your services.” 

I did not obey her; I lost control over myself; 
my arms tightened around her waist — in vain did I 
try to disengage them. She turned pale with anger. 

“How unfortunate I am,” said I, my eyes filling 
with tears, “to always offend you and cause myself 
to be disliked more and more in proportion as my 
love increases!” 

Edmee was of an imperious nature. Her char- 
acter with years had acquired inflexible energy; 
she was no longer the trembling maiden whom I had 
clasped in my arms at Roche-Mauprat, but a bold, 


182 


MAUPRAT 


haughty woman, who would rather be strangled 
than permit an audacious action. In addition to 
that she knew that she was beloved, and recognized 
her power; she therefore repulsed me disdainfully, 
and when I followed her she raised her whip and 
threatened to leave an ignominious mark on my 
face if I ever dared to touch her stirrup. 

I fell upon my knees, beseeching her not to leave 
me without pardoning me. She was already upon 
her horse, and looking about her, she exclaimed: 

“I did not wish to see this detested spot again. 
Look, sir! look where we are!” 

In my turn I looked about me and saw that we 
were on the outskirts of the woods — on the edge of 
the Gazean pond. A few paces from us I saw the 
tower, the door of which gaped open behind the 
verdant foliage like a black cavern. 

I again combatted against two instincts. Who 
can explain the workings of a man’s brain when it 
wrestles with the senses — when one part of his being 
strives to suppress another? Such a struggle to an 
organization like mine was frightful, for do not im- 
agine that the will plays a secondary role with pas- 
sionate natures. It is absurd, however, to say to a 
man exhausted in combat of that kind, “You 
should have conquered yourself.” 


MAUPRAT 


183 


XXII 

How can I explain to you my feelings at the 
sight of the Gazean Tower? I had only seen it 
twice in my life; twice I had witnessed there hor- 
rible scenes; but the third which was to be enacted 
on the same spot was the most horrible of all! 

Standing erect before Edmee, who was preparing 
to leave me, furious at seeing her escape me for the 
third time, I gazed upon her wildly. I was pale, 
my fists were clinched. She never knew the peril 
she was in at that moment. I remember it with 
regret, but God alone can judge of it, for I tri- 
umphed, and that evil thought was my last. Seized 
with fear, I turned and fled in order not to yield to 
temptation. I had not cleared more than thirty 
paces when I heard a shot in the direction in which 
Edmee was. I halted, terror-stricken, I knew not 
why, for in the midst of a hunt a shot was nothing 
unusual. I was about to retrace my steps and re- 
join Edmee at the risk of again offending her, when 
I fancied I heard a groan near the Gazean Tower. 
I was confused. It took me several moments to 
gain control over my senses; my brain was filled 


184 


MAUPRAT 


with illusions which I could not distinguish from 
the reality. I groped my way along. Suddenly 
I came face to face with the priest; he was anx- 
iously seeking Edmee. The knight not seeing his 
daughter among the hunters, had grown fearful and 
had sent the priest in search of her. 

On seeing me pale, my hair in disorder, my eyes 
wild, without horse or gun (the latter I had 
dropped on the spot where I had almost fainted, 
and I had neglected to pick it up), he was as much 
frightened as I was, without knowing the reason 
any more than did I. 

“Edmee,” he said; “where is Edmee?” 

I replied incoherently. 

He was dismayed to see me in such a condition, 
and inwardly accused me of a crime, which he con- 
fessed to me later. 

“Unhappy boy!” he said, shaking my arm to 
recall me to myself; “be calm, be sensible, I im- 
plore you!” 

I did not understand him, but I dragged him 
toward the fatal path. Oh, horrible sight! Ed- 
mee was stretched on the ground bathed in her 
blood; her horse was browsing several paces from 
her. Patience was standing near her, his arms 
crossed upon his breast, his face livid and his heart 
so full that it was impossible for him to reply to 
the priest, who interrogated him with sobs and tears. 




































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A 

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J 


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V «• 









MAUPRAT 


185 


As for me, I could not comprehend what had taken 
place; I think my brain was paralyzed. I knelt 
upon the ground beside Edmee, whose breast was 
pierced by two bullets. I looked at her dim eyes 
in a state of absolute stupidity. 

“Take away that miserable fellow!” at length 
said Patience to the priest, casting upon me a con- 
temptuous glance. 

“Edmee! Edmee!” cried the priest, falling upon 
the grass and trying to stanch the blood with his 
handkerchief. 

“Dead! dead!” said Patience; “and there is the 
murderer! She said so on giving up her soul to 
God, and Patience will be her avenger! It is very 
hard, but it must be! God must wish it, since I 
was by to hear the truth.” 

“It is horrible! it is horrible!” cried the priest. 

I heard the sound of that last word and smiled 
with a bewildered air as I repeated it. The hunts- 
men rode up; Edmee was carried away. I thought 
I saw her father walking about, and should have 
believed it a dream had I not been told afterward 
that the knight left his carriage without any aid; 
that he walked about and gave orders with as much 
strength snd presence of mind as a young man. 
The following day, however, he fell into a state of 
complete childishness and insensibility, and never 
again left his couch. 


186 


MAUPRAT 


What happened to me I do not know. When I 
regained consciousness I found that I was in an- 
other path in the forest, near a small waterfall, the 
murmur of which I heard with a sense of satisfac- 
tion. Blaireau was asleep at my feet, and his mas- 
ter, leaning against a tree, was watching me at- 
tentively, while the setting sun gilded the tree-tops; 
the wild flowers seemed to smile at me and the 
birds to sing melodiously. 

“What a magnificent evening! ,, said I to Mar- 
casse; “this spot is as lovely as any American 
forest. Well, my friend, what are you doing? you 
should have awakened me sooner — I have had 
horrible dreams.” 

Marcasse came and knelt by my side; tears trick- 
led down his sallow, withered cheeks. There was 
upon his usually impassive face an expression of 
ineffable pity, of sorrow and of love* 

“Poor master!” said he, “frenzy; madness, that 
is all! How unfortunate! Fidelity cannot cure! 
With you forever — if necessary, to die with you!” 

His tears, his words saddened me; but it was 
the result of sympathetic instinct, for I remem- 
bered nothing. I cast myself into his arms, weep- 
ing like him, and he pressed me to his breast. I 
had a presentiment that some terrible misfortune 
was hanging over me, but I dreaded to learn in 
what it consisted, and for nothing in the world 


MAUPRAT 


187 


would I have questioned him. He took my arm 
and led me through the forest; I suffered myself to 
be led like a chlid, but he had to let me rest for 
half an hour, owing to a return of my weakness. 
At length he assisted me to rise and succeeded in 
guiding me to Roche -Mauprat, where we arrived 
very late. Marcasse told^me afterward that I was 
for a time delirious. He took upon himself to 
send to the nearest village for a barber to shave 
my head. “Dead, dead, dead!” was the only word 
I could articulate. I groaned and tossed upon my 
bed. I wanted to rise and make my way to Sainte- 
Severe; my poor sergeant threw himself at my feet 
in order to prevent me. In one of those struggles 
my wound reopened, and I returned quietly to my 
bed without attracting his notice. I fell into a 
deep swoon, and was almost dying when, seeing 
my purple cheeks and lips, he raised the coverlets 
and found me weltering in my blood. For several 
days I was unconscious. When consciousness re- 
turned and I had partaken of some food, Marcasse 
perceiving that with strength sadness and anxiety 
again weighed heavily upon me, he told me care- 
fully and tenderly that Edmee was not dead, and 
that the doctors did not even despair of her life. 

That revelation shocked me, for I had believed 
that horrible adventure the work of my delirium. 
I began to lament and wring my hands. Marcasse, 


188 


MAUPRAT 


upon his knees at my bedside, implored me to 
calm myself, and repeated these words, to me so 
destitute of sense: 

“You did not do it on purpose, I know — no, you 
did not do it on purpose. It is a piece of ill-luck 
to have a gun go off accidentally in one’s hand.” 

“What are you saying?” I cried impatiently; 
“what gun? what accident? Why me?” 

“Do you not know then how she was shot, mas- 
ter?” 

I put my hands to my head as if to bring back 
life and energy, and not being able to explain the 
mysterious event, I thought I must be mad, and 
maintained silence, fearing lest a word might escape 
me that would prove the loss of my faculties. 

By degrees I regained my memory. I asked for 
wine to strengthen me, and scarcely had I taken a 
few drops than all the scenes of that fatal day 
passed before me as if by magic. I even remem- 
bered the words I had heard Patience utter soon 
after the accident. For a moment I was uncertain; 
I asked myself if my gun had gone off in my hands 
as I was leaving Edmee. I remembered clearly that 
I had discharged it an hour before to bring down 
a bird, whose plumage Edmee wished to see more 
closely. Quite satisfied that I was not the cause 
of that sad accident, an explanation of the affair 
remained to be found. I extorted the truth from 


MAUPRAT 


189 


Marcasse; he told me that the knight and all the 
participants in the chase attributed the misfortune 
to a casualty — to an explosion of my fire-arms when 
my horse threw me — for they thought I had been 
thrown. One person alone accused me — that per- 
son was Patience; bat he accused me only in secret, 
and under the seal of a vow made before his two 
friends, Marcasse and the priest Aubert. 

“I need not tell you,” said Marcasse, “that the 
priest will maintain silence, and that he refuses to 
believe you guilty. As for me, I swear that never — ” 

“Be silent,” I said to him; “do not say that; that 
would be to suppose that some one believes it. 
But Edmee said something to Patience at the mo- 
ment she expired; for she is dead — you cannot de- 
ceive me; she is dead — I shall never see her more!” 

“She is not dead!” cried Marcasse, as he made 
vows which convinced me. Edmee’ s words he re- 
fused to repeat to me, and by that I knew that they 
were overwhelming. Then I rose from my bed; I 
repulsed Marcasse, who tried to detain me. I had 
a horse saddled and set off at a gallop. I looked 
like a specter when I reached the castle. I pro- 
ceeded to the drawing-room, meeting no one but 
Saint- Jean, who uttered aery of terror on perceiv- 
ing me, and who disappeared without replying to 
my questions. The drawing-room was empty. 
My uncle’s arm-chair no longer stood in the corner 


190 


MAUPRAT 


by the fire-place; my portrait, which I had had 
taken in Philadelphia, and which I had sent home 
during the American War, had been taken from 
the wall. 

I left that room and ascended the stairs, despair 
in my soul. I went direct to Edmee’sroom, and 
entered as soon as I had knocked. Mile. Leblanc 
came to meet me, screamed and fled, hiding her 
face in her hands, as if she had seen a wild beast. 

What could have caused such dread of me? Had 
the priest been disloyal to me? I learned later that 
Edmee, while declaring me innocent in her lucid 
moments, had accused me in her delirium. 

I approached her bed, and not dreaming that an 
unexpected sight of me could give her a shock, I 
drew the curtains eagerly and gazed upon her. Her 
large black eyes were larger and more brilliant, 
although expressionless. I had never seen beauty 
more surpassing; her cheeks were colorless, her 
lips were as white as her cheeks, giving her face a 
statuesque appearance. She stared at me fixedly, 
with as little emotion as if she were looking at a 
painting or a piece of furniture; then she turned 
away her head with a mysterious smile. 

I fell upon my knees, I seized her hand, I covered 
it with kisses, I burst into tears; she noticed noth- 
ing; her impassive, icy hand lay in mine like a piece 
of alabaster. 


MAUPRAT 


191 


i 


XXIII 

The priest entered and greeted me with a distant, 
mournful air; then drawing me from the bedside, 
he said: 

“You are a madman! Return home; be prudent 
enough not to come here — that is all that is left for 
you to do.” 

“And since when,” I cried in a transport of fury, 
“have you theright to drive me from the bosom of 
my family?” 

“Alas! you have no family!” he replied with 
an accent of sadness which disarmed me; “of 
father and daughter there only remain two phan- 
toms, whose moral life is extinct and whose physical 
life will soon be. Respect the last moments of 
those who have cherished you.” 

“And how can I show my respect by abandoning 
them?” I asked in amazement. 

“In that respect,” said the priest, “I shall not 
need to tell you, for you know that your presence 
here is rash and polluting. Go! when they are no 
more, if you have any claims on this house you can 
return; you will certainly not find me here to op- 

iMauprat — /j? 


192 


MAUPRAT 


pose or confirm them. In the meantime I take 
the liberty of having those two respected to the 
last.” 

“Miserable man!” I cried; “lean scarcely resist 
tearing you limb from limb! What abominable 
caprice impels you to attack me thus cruelly? Do 
you think I should survive such a misfortune? Do 
you not .know that three coffins will leave this 
house at the same time? Do you think that I have 
come to ask anything but one last glance, one last 
blessing?” 

“Say one last pardon ,” said the priest. 

“I say that you are insane!” I cried, “and that 
if you were not a priest I would punish you for 
speaking to me in such a manner.” 

“I do not fear you, sir,” he said. “But I am 
sorry that you confirm by your menaces and your 
passion the accusations hanging over your head. 
Were you repentant, I would weep with you, but 
your assurance horrifies me. Until now I only saw 
in you a madman; to-day I see a villain. Go!” 

I sank into a chair, almost suffocated with rage 
and pain. For a moment I wished for death! 
Edmee expiring near me, and before me a judge 
imbued with such convictions that, though gentle 
and charitable by nature, he became harsh and 
implacable! 

The loss of her whom I loved made me despair, 


MAUPRAT 


193 


but the knowledge of the accusations against me 
aroused my energy. I did not for a moment think 
that such an accusation would hold its ground 
against the truth. I fancied that a word from 
me would suffice. But I was so startled, so wound- 
ed, that that means of defense vanished, and the 
more the opprobrium of suspicion weighed upon me, 
the more I perceived the impossibility of establish- 
ing my innocence with only my own knowledge of 
it for defense. I was overcome, and could not ut- 
ter a sound. 

The door opened, and Mile. Leblanc, approaching 
me with a stiff and scornful air, said that some one 
wished to speak to me on the stairs. I left the 
room mechanically and found Patience awaiting 
me, his arms crossed and with an expression upon 
his face which would have inspired me with respect 
and awe had I been guilty. 

“M. de Mauprat, I must have a word with you; 
will you accompany me to my cottage ?” 

“Yes,” I replied. “I will suffer all these humilia- 
tions, provided that I find out what is wanted with 
me and why it pleases every one to insult the most 
unfortunate of men. Come, Patience, and walk 
quickly, for I am in haste to return hither.” 

Patience preceded me, and when we reached his 
cottage we saw my poor sergeant, who had also 
just arrived. Not finding any horse on which to fol- 


194 


MAUPRAT 


low me, and not wishing to leave me alone, he had 
come on foot so rapidly that he was bathed in per- 
spiration. He rose from the bench upon which he 
had seated himself and approached us. 

“Patience!” he cried in a dramatic tone which 
would have made me smile had I felt in such a 
humor. “Old fool! — a slanderer at your age! Fie, 
sir! Corrupted by fortune — you are — yes.” 

Patience, unmoved, shrugged his shoulders and 
said to his friend: 

“Marcasse, you do not know what you say. Go, 
lie down in the orchard. You have no business 
here; I desire to speak with your master alone. 
Go; I wish it,” he added, pushing him with an au- 
thority to which the sergeant, although proud and 
sensitive, yielded from force of habit. 

When we were alone, Patience proceeded to in- 
terrogate me, to which interrogation I resolved to 
submit in order to obtain some light upon that 
which was taking place around me. 

“Will you tell me, sir,” he said, “what you in- 
tend to do now?” 

“I intend to remain with my relatives,” I replied, 
“as long as I have relatives; and when they are no 
more, what I shall do concerns no one.” 

“But, sir,” resumed Patience, “if ‘you are told 
that you cannot remain with your relatives with- 


MAUPRAT 


195 


out giving a death-blow to either one or the other, 
would you still persist in remaining?” 

“If I was convinced of that,” I said, “I would 
not let them see me; I would wait without their 
doors until their death or recovery, to ask of them 
once again the affection I have not ceased to 
merit.” 

“Ah, is that so?” said Patience, with a disdain- 
ful smile. “I did not think that!” 

“What do you mean?” I exclaimed. “Speak, 
wretch! explain yourself.” 

“No one but you is a wretch,” said he, coldly. 

I wanted an explanation at any price. I re- 
strained myself, and had even the humility to say 
that I would iisten to good counsel if he would 
consent to repeat to me the words Edmee had ut- 
tered directly after the accident, and those, too, 
which she had spoken in her delirium. 

“Certainly not,” said Patience, sternly. “You 
are not worthy to hear a word spoken by those 
lips, and I will not repeat them to you! Why do 
you want to know them? Do you hope to hide 
something from men? God has seen you — there 
are no secrets from Him. Go, remain at Roche- 
Mauprat quietly, and when your uncle is dead, 
when your affairs are settled, leave the country. 
If you listen to me you will leave it at once. I will 
not have you followed. But before two days are 


196 


MAUPRAT 


over, a careless word spoken in public, a servant’s 
indiscretion, might arouse the law, and from there 
to the scaffold,. if one is guilty, there is but one step. 
I do not despise you — I have indeed loved you; 
listen to good advice. Go, now, or hide yourself 
and hold yourself in readiness for flight. I do not 
seek your ruin — nor would Edmee desire it.” 

“You are mad to think that I would listen to 
such advice. I hide myself! I fly like a guilty 
man! — you cannot mean it! I will brave every- 
thing. I do not know what possesses, what leagues 
you against me. I do not know why you wish to 
prevent me from seeing my uncle and cousin, but I 
scorn your folly. My place is here, and I will only 
leave at my uncle’s or cousin’s orders, and I must 
hear those orders from their lips, for I will receive 
no message through another. Therefore, many 
thanks for your wisdom, Monsieur Patience — mine 
will suffice. My compliments!” 

I was preparing to leave the cottage when he 
rushed toward me, and I saw that for a moment he 
was disposed to employ force to detain me. In 
spite of his advanced age, he was a very^ Hercules. 
However, he restrained himself, and placing his 
hand upon my arm in one of those accesses of 
tenderness to which he was subject in times of his 
greatest harshness, he looked at me affectionately 
and said gently: 


MAUPRAT 


197 


“Unhappy boy! you whom I have loved as my 
child — for I looked upon you as Edmee’s brother — 
do not rush to your destruction! I supplicate you 
in the name of her whom you have assassinated 
and whom you love still, but whom you can see no 
more. Your family was only yesterday a superb 
craft, whose rudder you steered; to-day it is strand- 
ed, and has neither sails nor pilot. Now, poor cast- 
away, do not persist in drowning yourself; I offer 
you the rope, take it — one day more and it will be 
too late. Remember that if the law lays hold of 
you, he who to-day tries to save you will to-mor- 
row be obliged to accuse and condemn you. Do 
not force me to a deed the thought of which causes 
my tears to flow. Bernard, my child, you have 
been loved — think of the past!” 

I burst into tears, and the sergeant, entering at 
that moment, wept too, and begged me to return to 
Roche-Mauprat. I arose and said to both men: 

“ I know that you are kind and love me well, for, 
believing me guilty of a horrible crime, you desire 
to save my life; but make yourselves easy, sirs. 
I am innocent, and I wish to have it proved that I 
am. I owe it to my family to live until my honor 
is re-established; then, if I am destined to see my 
cousin die, as I have only her to love upon earth, 
I will send a bullet through my brain. Why then 
should I be cast down? I do not cling to life. 


198 


M A UP RAT 


May God render peaceful and calm the last hours 
of her whom I shall certainly not survive! That is 
all I ask.” 

Patience shook his head with a gloomy and dis- 
contented air. He was so positive of my guilt that 
my denials only served to alienate his sympathy. 
Marcasse loved me as well. But I was the only 
guarantee of my innocence. 

“If you return to the castle, you must swear here 
that you will not enter your cousin’s or your uncle’s 
room without the priest’s permission,” cried 
Patience. 

“I swear that I am innocent,” replied I, “and 
that I will not be convicted of guilt by any one. 
Let me go! Patience, if you think it your duty to 
denounce me, do so; all that I ask is that I be not 
condemned without a hearing. I prefer the law tri- 
bunal to the tribunal of popular opinion.” 

I passed out of the cottage and returned to the 
castle. Not wishing to make a scene before the 
servants, and knowing that they could not hide 
from me Edmee’s condition, I sought the room I 
had formerly occupied. But as I left it, toward 
evening, to inquire after the two invalids, Mile. 
Leblanc again informed me that some one was 
awaiting me without. 

I perceived* upon her face a mixture of satisfaction 
and fear. I divined that they had come to arrest 


MAUPRAT 


199 


me, and I had misgivings that Mile. Leblanc had 
denounced me. I walked to the window and saw 
the marshal’s officers in the court-yard. 

“Very well,” said I, “my fate must be decided.” 

But before .leaving that house, perhaps forever — 
that house in which I left my heart — I wanted to 
see Edmee for the last time. I went to her room. 
Mile. Leblanc tried to bar the way, but I pushed 
her aside and entered. I found there the priest 
and physician. I listened silently to what the 
latter was saying. I heard that the wounds were 
not mortal of themselves — that they would not 
even be serious, unless some shock to her mind 
should complicate the difficulty and bring on 
tetanus. As a result of wounds received in battle, 
I had seen many persons in America die from that 
terrible disease. I approached the bed. The 
priest was so dismayed he did not think of prevent- 
ing me. I took Edmee’s hand, still cold and inan- 
imate. I kissed it, and without addressing a word 
to the other inmates of the room, I went down- 
stairs and surrendered to the marshal. 


200 


MAUPRAT 


XXIV 

I was at once imprisoned. The following day 
some one was sent to the village of Sainte-Severe 
and to the farms in the vicinity of the forest of 
Curat, where the accident had taken place, to take 
the depositions of more than thirty witnesses. 
Had I been independent enough, had any one taken 
an interest in me, many violations of the law which 
took place at that time and during my trial could 
have been used in my favor to have proven that 
secret hatred formed the ground- work of the whole 
affair. 

At the first examination only one charge was 
heard against me, that of Mile. Leblanc. While all 
the huntsmen swore that they knew nothing about 
the matter, and had no reason to regard the accident 
as a voluntary deed, Mile Leblanc, who hated me 
for several jokes I had played upon her, and who, 
moreover, had been bribed, as we discovered later, 
swore that Edmee on reviving the first time had 
been entirely free from fever, and had confided in 
her, at the same time binding her to secrecy, that 
she had been threatened, thrown from her horse. 


MAUPRAT 


201 


and finally assaulted by me. That wretched woman, 
in repeating Edmee’s delirious ravings, formed a 
plausible story which she embellished in proportion 
to her hatred of me. Misrepresenting her mistress’ 
vague wanderings, she affirmed upon oath that 
Edmee had seen me point my gun at her as I said: 
“I have told you that you should only die by my 
hand.” 

Saint- Jean, examined the same day, swore that 
he knew nothing except what Mile. Leblanc had 
told him the night of the occurrence, and his story 
conformed exactly with the preceding testimony. 
He said that I had always been peculiar; that I was 
subject to fits of aberration; that many times, when 
suffering from such attacks, I had talked of blood 
and of murder to a person whom I fancied I saw; 
and lastly, that I had so violent a temper that I 
was capable of throwing anything at a person’s 
head, though to his knowledge he had never seen 
me indulge in an excess of that kind. Such depo- 
sitions often decide life or death in a case such as 
that was. 

Patience, on the day of inquiry, was not to be 
found. The priest stated that his ideas of the 
affair were so uncertain that he must have more 
time to inquire into it; a delay was granted him. 

Marcasse said that if I had caused Mile, de 
Mauprat’s wounds, which he very much doubted, I 


203 


MAUPRAT 


had at least caused them involuntarily. He would 
pledge his honor and his life on that assertion. 
Such were the results of the first inquiry. 

It was continued several days, and many false 
witnesses swore that they had seen me shoot Mile, 
de Mauprat The. case, carried to the criminal 
court at Bourges, was to come up in a few days. 
You can imagine my despair. Edmee’s condition 
became more and more deplorable; her reason was 
completely overthrown. I was not anxious as to 
the issue of my case; I did not think it would be 
possible to convict me of a crime I had not com- 
mitted; but of what value were honor and life to 
me if Edmee was not to be near me? I looked up- 
on her as dead, as cursing me with her dying breath! 

I had decided to kill myself after my sentence, what- 
ever it might be. Had it not been for the zeal of 
my lawyer and the admirable devotion of Marcasse, 
my lack of interest would have ruined my life. 

Marcasse spent his time exerting himself in my 
interests. At night he lay upon a straw pallet at 
my feet, and after having given me the news of Ed- 
mee and my uncle, whom he saw daily, he told me 
the result of his expeditions. I pressed his hand 
tenderly, but the greater part of the time, absorbed 
in what he was telling me of Edmee, I did not 
hear what he said. For some time Marcasse had 
felt certain that Edmee’s life had been attempted 


MAUPRAT 


208 


by Jean de Manprat. That might be; but as I had 
no possibility of turning it to account, I ordered 
him to be silent when he spoke of it. I did not 
like the thought of clearing myself at the expense 
of others. 

I persisted in believing that one of the huntsmen 
had inadvertently shot Edmee, and that a feeling 
of shame and fear prevented him from avowing 
the accident. Marcasse made so bold as to call 
upon all those who had taken part in the chase, 
and to beg them with all the eloquence in his power 
not to shun the punishment of an involuntary 
crime, and not to permit an innocent person to 
suffer from the results of such a deed. 

All his steps were fruitless, and my poor friend 
found no means of solving the mystery enshroud- 
ing the affair. 

I was transferred to Bourges, to the ancient 
stronghold of the Dukes of Berry. It was a great 
trial to me to be separated from my faithful attend- 
ant. They would have permitted him to accom- 
pany me, but he feared he might soon after be ar- 
rested at the instigation of my enemies, and that he 
might then be unable to serve me. 

Two days after my removal to Bourges, Marcasse 
produced a document drawn up, at his request, by 
two notaries of Chatre, from the depositions of ten 
witnesses; which document stated that many days 


204 


MAUPRAT 


before the accident a mendicant friar had been seen 
rambling in the woods; that he had been lodged at 
Notre Dame de Panligny the night before the sad 
occurrence. Marcasse claimed that the monk was 
Jean de Mauprat; two women testified that they 
recognized in him either Jean or Gaucher de Mau- 
prat. Those depositions, far from being favorable 
to me, made a bad impression, and were prejudicial 
to my defense. 

The Trappist was successful in proving an alibi 
and in circulating the report that I was an infamous 
knave. It was a time of triumph for Jean de 
Mauprat; for no one dared to prosecute a man as 
holy as he led every one to believe he was. In his 
depositions, Marcasse related the mysterious ap- 
parition of the Trappist at Roche-Mauprat, his in- 
trusion into M. Hubert’s apartments, and his ef- 
forts, through the prior, to obtain large sums of 
money. All this was treated as a romance, for 
Marcasse had never witnessed any of the appari- 
tions, and neither the knight nor his daughter were 
in a condition to give evidence. My replies, it is 
true, confirmed those statements, but as I said 
with perfect sincerity that for two months the 
Trappist had not caused me any anxiety, and as I 
refused to attribute the crime to him, it seemed 
for several days that he would be permanently re- 
established in popular opinion. 


MAUPRAT 


205 


Patience could have served my enemies had he 
wished to, convinced as he was of my guilt, but he 
did not do so. He had resumed his wandering life, 
and without actually concealing himself, he was 
never to be found. Marcasse could not comprehend 
such conduct, while the officers of the law were 
furious at being thus evaded. 


206 


MAUPRAT 


XXV 

The important day arrived. I repaired to the 
court-room calmly, but the sight of the crowd de- 
pressed me. I had among those faces no sympa- 
thy, no support; upon all of them I saw only un- 
feeling and impertinent curiosity. The village 
maidens remarked upon my youth and good looks; 
a number of fashionable and aristocratic ladies in 
striking costumes were in the galleries; several 
capuchins were among the people. 

The examinations began with the emphatic solem- 
nity which characterizes such an occasion. My 
replies baffled the hopes of the curious; to those 
concerning my childhood and education, I replied 
that I was not in the prisoner’s dock to take the 
part of an accuser; to those which related to Ed- 
mee, and the nature of my sentiments toward, and 
relations with her, I replied that Mile, de Mau- 
prat’s reputation would not admit of questions as 
to the nature of her relations with any man; to 
those which aimed to draw from me an avowal of 
the crime of which I was accused, I replied that 
I was not even its involuntary author. I returned 


MAUPRAT 


207 


monosyllabic replies, when possible, to all questions 
on events preceding the accident. They tried to 
represent that I had led Edmee purposely, by arti- 
fice or force, into that secluded spot, in order to kill 
her and to avoid discovery and punishment. 

The excitement was at its height when the Trap- 
pist, coming suddenly from the crowd, in a theat- 
rical manner approached the bar, boldly saying 
that he was a miserable sinner, worthy of insult, 
but that on that occasion he considered it his duty 
to furnish an example of frankness and simplicity 
by offering to put himself to all the tests which 
could enlighten the minds of the judges. 

The audience fairly stamped for joy. The Trap- 
pist was led into the center of the court and con- 
fronted with the witnesses, who all declared with- 
out hesitation that the monk they had seen wore 
the same garb and bore a faint resemblance to him, 
but that he was undoubtedly not the same man. 
The issue of that incident scored another triumph 
for the Trappist. I remembered at that moment 
that at the priest’s first interview with Jean de 
Mauprat, at the spring, the latter had mentioned a 
“brother in religion,” who was traveling with him. 
I communicated that reminiscence to my advo- 
cate, and he conferred with the priest, who was 
among the witnesses and who recalled the circum- 
stance. 

Mauprat — 14 


208 


MAUPRAT 


When his turn for examination arrived, he turned 
toward me with an air of anguish, his eyes filled 
with tears, and he replied with difficulty in a low 
voice, in these words: 

“We were in the woods when M. Hubert de 
Mauprat asked me to leave the carriage and go in 
search of his daughter Edmee, who had wandered 
away from the hunters and had been gone so long 
a time that he was anxious about her. I walked 
quite a distance, and thirty paces from the Gazean 
Tower I found M. Bernard de Mauprat in great 
confusion. I had just heard a shot; I saw that he 
had not his gun; he had thrown it (after discharg- 
ing it, as has been stated) several paces from him. 
Together we hastened to Mile, de Mauprat, whom 
we found upon the ground, pierced by two bullets. 
The man who was there before us, and who was 
near by at that instant, alone can tell us what 
words passed her lips. She was unconscious when 
I saw her.” 

“But you heard those words later,” said the 
chief-justice; “for a bond of friendship exists be- 
tween you and that learned peasant called Pa- 
tience.” 

The priest hesitated, and then asked if the law 
had a right to ask a man to reveal a secret intrust- 
ed to him, and to cause him to break his vow. 

“You have taken an oath here to speak the truth, 


MAUPRAT 


209 


the whole truth; you must know if that vow is not 
more binding and solemn than the one you made 
before it.” 

“But if I received that confidence under the seal 
of a confession, you would certainly not exhort 
me to reveal it?” 

“It is a long time,” said the justice, “since you 
have confessed any one, sir!” 

That personal attack aroused the priest’s obsti- 
nacy. 

“Everything considered, I think I will be silent, 
for my conscience bids me.” 

“Aubert,” angrily cried the counsel for the 
crown, “you apparently are ignorant of the pen- 
alties the law inflicts upon witnesses who conduct 
themselves as you have!” 

“I am not.” 

“And your intention is to brave them?” 

“I will undergo them if necessary.” 

“Very well — do you persist in this system of 
silence?” 

“I shall tell you nothing,” replied the priest. 

“In virtue of my power,” said the chief-justice, 
“I order that Aubert be arrested and imprisoned.” 

The priest allowed himself to be led quietly 
away. The public was inspired with respect, and 
the most profound silence reigned in the assembly. 

Of all the witnesses called, Mile. Leblanc was the 


210 


MAUPRAT 


most audacious. I was surprised to find the woman 
so bitter against me. She had, too, very powerful 
weapons with which to injure me. By virtue of 
listening at doors and obtaining all the family 
secrets from the lackeys, subject to exaggerations 
and misrepresentations, she managed to gather as 
many harmful facts as she could in order to ruin 
me. 

She told of my arrival at Sainte-Severe in Mile, 
de Mauprat’s train. “But at what price/’ she add- 
ed, “did this wretched bandit save my mistress? 
Owing to her disgrace she broke her engagement 
with M. de la Marche and refused all offers of mar- 
riage. She would at first have committed suicide, 
had I not taken her hunting-knife from her; she 
feared this young man’s' persecutions, and even 
bolted her door at night. In proportion as this 
fellow became more civilized and better educated, 
she treated him more kindly. She even nursed 
him during his illness, not because she loved and 
‘esteemed’ him, as M. Marcasse said in his ‘ver- 
sion, ’ but because she feared that in his delirium he 
might betray her secret. When they wintered in 
Paris, M. Bernard became jealous, despotic, and 
threatened to kill M. de la Marche, whom Mad- 
emoiselle was forced to dismiss. Violent scenes 
with Bernard followed, and he left for America. 
On his return, six years later, he seemed changed; 


MAUPRAT 


211 


but being thrown with his cousin constantly, his 
passion was reawakened and he lost his head , so 
to speak! He cried and raved at night, and wrote 
her such letters that she did not reply to them. 
Here is one that I found in her pocket after the 
terrible accident; it has been torn by a bullet and 
saturated in blood, but one can read enough of it 
to see that. ‘Monsieur’ often entertained thoughts 
of violence in connection with Mademoiselle!” 

She laid the letter upon the table. Before it was 
read, she concluded her testimony with assertions 
which greatly perplexed me, for I could not dis- 
tinguish between their truth and perfidy. 

“Since her accident,” she said, “Mademoiselle 
has been between life and death. She will never 
rise from her bed, although they think she will; 
but I understand her illness better than the doctors; 
they say her wounds will heal, but her mind will be 
unsettled; I say her mind is all right, but that her 
wounds are fatal. She is rarely delirious, but when 
she is, it is in the presence of the doctors, who an- 
noy her; when alone with Saint-Jean, the priest, or 
me, she is perfectly rational — she then speaks of 
her would-be murderer with a truly Christian char- 
ity, and says many times a day: ‘May God pardon 
him in the other life as I pardon him in this! I 
was wrong not to marry him; he would perhaps 
have made me happy. I drove him to despair, 


212 


MAUPRAT 


and he was revenged upon me. Dear Leblanc, 
never betray the secret I have confided in you — a 
careless word might lead him to the scaffold, and 
that would kill my father.’ The poor girl does 
not dream that matters have come to this; that 
I have been summoned by the law to tell that 
which I should keep secret. What consoles me 
is that all can be easily kept from the knight, who 
is childish. I have only done my duty, as God is 
my judge!” 

Amid a murmur of approbation Mile. Leblanc 
seated herself, and the reading of the letter found 
upon Edmee began. It was the one I had written 
to her several days before the accident. They 
handed it to me. I glanced at the handwriting 
and calmly declared it to be mine. When it had 
been read, a smile of delight was visible upon the 
faces of my enemies. My defense was shocked, 
and even poor Marcasse looked at me in despair. 

The public had already condemned me. Then 
the counsel for the Crown made his speech, and 
summed me up as an incorrigible rascal. 

Although my lawyer was an able man, the letter 
had surprised him to such an extent, and the audi- 
ence was so ill-disposed toward me, that his address 
sounded weak. He put forth that he was deprived 
of all means of defense by the refusal of a short 
delay, and he ventured to say boldly that there was 


M A UP RAT 


213 


an evil purpose in such haste. The judge called him 
to order. The jury retired to deliberate, and at the 
end of half an hour returned and rendered a ver- 
dict against me, condemning me to capital punish- 
ment. 


214 


MAUPRAT 


XXVI 

I received that unexpected blow with great com- 
posure. I no longer cared for anything on earth. 
I told myself that if Edmee died I should meet her 
in the better land; that if she lived and recovered 
her reason, a day of enlightenment would come, 
and I should live in her heart as a cherished mem- 
ory. Irritable as I was by nature, I was astonished 
at my philosophical resignation and at the haughty 
silence I maintained. 

Suddenly, at the moment when the court was 
about to adjourn, a form in tatters, barefooted, 
with a long beard, disheveled hair, an austere face 
and somber, impressive eyes, appeared in the midst 
of the crowd, and turning toward the bar, said in a 
hollow voice: 

“I, Jean La Houx,” said Patience, “object to 
that sentence as unjust and illegal. I demand that 
it be set aside, in order that I can give my evidence, 
which is extremely necessary and which should be 
heard.” 

“If you had anything to say,” cried the counsel 
for the Crown angrily, “why did you not present 


MAUPRAT 


215 


yourself when you were called? You are imposing 
upon the court by pretending that you have evidence 
to give.” 

“And you,” replied Patience in a hollow voice, 
very slowly, “are imposing upon the public by say- 
ing I have not. You know very well that I have.” 

“Witness, remember where you are and to whom 
you are speaking!” 

“I know that well. I know that I have impor- 
tant matters to relate and that I would have re- 
lated them in time, had you not forced the case. 
I wish to tell them, and intend to do so. I believe, 
too, that it will be better for me to tell them, so that 
the proceedings can be reconsidered. It will be 
better for the judges than for the condemned, for 
the latter will revive by honor at the moment that 
the others die of infamy.” 

“Witness,” said the magistrate, “the insolence 
of your language will be more hurtful than advan- 
tageous to the accused.” 

“Who has told you that I will be favorable to 
the accused?” roared Patience in a voice of thunder. 
“What do you know of me? Suppose it pleases 
me to contend that an illegal sentence can be irrev- 
ocable?” 

“How can you reconcile that desire to respect 
the law with the infraction you have committed in 
not appearing when you were summoned?” 


216 


MAUPRAT 


“Simply by this — that I did not want to.” 

“There are severe penalties attached to such 
breaches of the law.” 

“Possibly.” 

“Have you come to-day with the intention of 
submitting to the laws?” 

“I have come to force you to respect them.” 

“I warn you that if you do not alter your mode 
of speech, I will have you committed to jail.” 

“I warn you that if you respeGt God and justice, 
you will listen to me and suspend the execution of 
the sentence.” 

He turned to the people assembled and addressed 
them with chivalrous impetuosity. 

“Join me, O, ye people, in embracing the 
defense of the truth! Fall upon your knees, 
my children; my brethren, pray that justice 
may be done and wrath averted. It is your 
duty, your right, and your interest; it is you who 
are injured and threatened when the laws are 
violated.” 

A furious clamor arose; Patience, conscious of 
his power, forgot personal prejudice in the com- 
mon right. Thus at times a noble impulse and a 
true word suffice to reclaim the masses misled by 
long sophisms. 

The reprieve was granted and I was conducted 
to my cell amidst a storm of applause, Marcasse 


MAUPRAT 


217 


followed me. Patience, avoiding recognition, dis- 
appeared. 

The revision of my case could only take place by 
an order of the King. Before my sentence I had 
decided to let matters take their course, but after- 
ward Patience inspired me as he did the spectators; 
my sense of justice was aroused and I spent the 
remainder of the night devising means for establish- 
ing my innocence. 

With that feeling of strength came that of hope. 
“Edmee may perhaps recover — who knows?” said 
I to myself; “she may have sent Patience to my 
aid.” 

But how was the order to be obtained? who 
would solicit it? The priest alone could help me; 
he had proved during the trial that he was my 
friend — but he was in prison. What could hum- 
ble Marcasse do with his enigmatical speech? 

I feel asleep trusting to Providence, whose aid 
I had fervently evoked. Several hours’ sleep re- 
freshed me, and I opened my eyes as the bolts of 
my door were drawn. What was my delight on 
seeing Arthur, into whose arms I rushed. He had 
heard in Paris, whither he had been called in the 
interests of science, of the sad affair in which I was 
implicated, and he had not lost any time in hasten- 
ing to aid or comfort me. 

I begged him to go to Sainte-Severe to obtain 


218 


MAUPRAT 


news of Edmee, of whom I had heard nothing for 
four days. He consented, saying that from there 
he would leave for Paris. 

On the third day he wrote me a lengthy, detailed 
letter. Edmee was in a very peculiar condition. 
She did not speak, and did not seem to suffer as long 
as she was exposed to no nervous excitement, but 
at the first word that could recall the memory of 
her misfortunes, she fell into convulsions. 

The moral isolation in which she was held was 
the greatest obstacle to her recovery. She had 
two good physicians and excellent nurses. Mile. 
Leblanc also waited upon her, but that dangerous 
woman often harmed her by her imprudent remarks 
and questions. 

Arthur assured me that if Edmee had thought me 
guilty, it must have been in an earlier phase of her 
malady; for the past two weeks she had been in a 
state of inertia. She replied to all questions by 
signs. Her affection for her father, however, still 
existed, though all other love seemed to have passed 
away. She often shed tears. In vain did they try 
to make her comprehend that her father was not 
dead. They rolled the knight’s chair into her room, 
but father and daughter did not recognize one an- 
other. She had taken Arthur for a physician, and 
treated him as indifferently as the rest of her attend- 
ants. He had not dared to speak to her of me, 


MAUPRAT 


219 


but he bade me not to despair. Edmee’s condition 
was such that time and quiet would cure her, for 
she had in her favor youth and an admirable con- 
stitution. He implored me to take care of myself, 
for I might be useful to Edmee. 

In two weeks Arthur returned from Paris with 
the King’s order for a repetition of my trial. Again 
witnesses were examined. 

Patience did not appear, but I received a slip of 
paper from him containing these words: “You are 
not guilty, therefore hope .’ 5 

The doctors agreed that Mile, de Mauprat could 
be examined without danger, but that her replies 
would be of no value. She was in better health; 
she had recognized her father and would not leave 
his side; but she understood nothing apart from 
that. She seemed to take a great delight in car- 
ing for the old man, who from time to time knew 
his daughter. When questioned, however, Edmee 
merely shrugged her shoulders and evinced a desire 
to be left in peace. Arthur did not lose courage. 
When that was related to him he said he would bring 
about a favorable crisis in Edmee’s intellectual fac- 
ulties. He left at once for Sainte-Severe, where 
he remained several days without writing to me, 
thereby causing me great anxiety. 

The piiest, re-examined, persisted in his calm 
and laconic refusal. My judges, seeing that the 


220 


MAUPRAT 


information promised by Patience did not arrive, 
hastened the review of my case, giving by that 
action a fresh proof of their animosity toward me. 

The day set arrived. I was a prey to uneasiness. 
Arthur had written me to hope in a style as la- 
conic as that of Patience. My lawyer had been 
unable to obtain any helpful evidence. I could 
see that he began to think me culpable. His only 
hope was in delay. 


MAUPRAT 


221 


XXVII 

The assembly was larger on that particular day 
than it had been before. It required an effort on 
my part to appear composed. I was sensible of 
nothing that was taking place around me, except 
that a door opened behind the tribv.nal and Arthur 
entered, supporting a lady, whose v',il he raised after 
seating her; that a murmur of admiration was 
heard in the assembly when the pale, delicate face 
of Edmee was disclosed. At that moment I forgot 
the throng, my cau^.e — the entire world. I rushed 
forward and fell at her feet. They told me after- 
ward that ladies wept, and even the lawyers were 
affected. For some time Edmee stared vacantly 
at me. Suddenly she burst into tears, threw her 
arms about my neck and fainted. She was borne 
out of the room; with difficulty was I induced to 
return to my seat. 

Arthur, turning to the court, demanded that 
the invalid’s condition be confirmed by the doctors 
who had examined her that morning. He too re- 
quested, and his request was granted, that Edmee 
be called as a witness and confronted with me, 


222 


MAUPRAT 


when she revived from her swoon. As Arthur^ 
withdrew, Patience entered. He was neatly dt- 
tired, but after several words he declared that he 
could not continue if he were not permitted to take 
off his coat — it annoyed him; he scarcely awaited 
permission to cast that mark of civilization upon 
the ground, then he said: 

“I will tell the truth, the whole truth. I swear 
before God and man to tell what I know, as I know 
it, without being influenced for or against any 
one.” 

This time his voice was loud and penetrating; 
he spoke clearly and concisely: 

“When Mile, de Maupratwas shot, I was not ten 
paces away. I was of the hunting party, but tak- 
ing little interest in the chase, I wandered off, and 
finding that I was in the vicinity of the Gazean 
Tower, in which I lived twenty years, I felt a desire 
to revisit my old habitation. I had reached it 
when I heard a shot. I was not startled, for I at- 
tributed it to one of the huntsmen; but when I 
emerged from the thicket I found Edmee kneeling 
upon the ground, wounded, and grasping the bridle 
of her horse. She did not know to what an extent 
she was wounded, but her other hand clutched her 
breast as she cried: 

“‘Bernard, it is terrible! I would never have be- 
lieved you capable of killing me! Bernard, where 


MAUPRAT 


223 


are you? Come to see me die. You have killed 
my father!’ 

“With those words she fell; I rushed toward her. 
‘Ah, did you see him, Patience? Do not speak of 
it; do not tell my father.’ She spoke no more un- 
til the bullet had been extracted.” 

“Did you see Bernard Mauprat?” 

“I saw him arrive upon the spot just as Edmee 
lost consciousness; he was like a madman. I 
thought he was remorseful, and spoke harshly to 
him. He did not reply, but seated himself beside 
his cousin. No one thought of accusing him; they 
assumed that he had fallen from his horse and that 
his gun had discharged as he fell. Several days 
afterward Edmee talked, but she was delirious. I 
claim that she confided in no one (in Mile. Leblanc 
least of all) what passed between her and M. de 
Mauprat before the shooting took place. In rare 
moments of lucidity she replied to our questions by 
saying that Bernard had certainly not done it pur- 
posely and at first she asked to see him; when she 
was feverish, she cried: ‘Bernard, Bernard! you 
have committed a great crime! You have killed my 
father! * 

“She thought her father was dead and persisted in 
her belief for some time. She said very little of 
any importance. All that Mile. Leblanc has tes- 
tified -is false. In the first stages of her illness she 

Mauprat — 75 


224 


M A UP RAT 


was delirious and later on she sank into a state of 
silence. She dismissed Mile. Leblanc a week ago 
when consciousness returned and that proves some- 
thing against the woman. That is all I have to say 
against M. de Mauprat. But I have more to tell, 
for the whole truth must be revealed. For some 
weeks I felt convinced of Bernard’s guilt and I pon- 
dered much upon it. I told myself that a man as 
intelligent and as much beloved as he was by his 
uncle and cousin, could not be such a villain. Then 
it occurred to me that perhaps another Mauprat had 
committed the deed; I do not mean the Trappist, 
but the one whose death has not been confirmed 
except by the word of M. Jean de Mauprat. 

“Believing, therefore, that Bernard was incapable 
of such an action, and having learned from several 
persons, whom I regarded as truthful, that a monk 
resembling a Mauprat had been in the neighbor- 
hood and having myself seen the back and gown of 
that monk the morning of the accident, I resolved 
to find out if he were in La Varenne. I ascertained 
that he was, or rather that he had returned thither 
and that he was intimate with M. Jean de Mauprat. 

“Who is this monk? I asked myself. What is he 
doing at La Varenne? If he is a Carmelite why 
does he not wear the garb? If he is of M. Jean’s 
order why is he not at the Carmelite monastery? 
If he is a Trappist, and does not wish to remain 


MAUPRAT 


225 


there with the others, why does he not return to 
his cloister? Who is he? and why do he and M. 
Jean de Mauprat, who several times denied that 
he knew him, dine together from time to time at 
an inn at Crevant? 

“I gave my testimony, even should it injure Ber- 
nard somewhat, in order to have the right to tell you 
what I have, should it avail nothing. As you had 
not the time to give to the examination of wit- 
nesses, I at once set out for my woods, to find out 
in my way what that monk was doing in the neigh- 
borhood. I have tracked him, discovered that he 
is Edmee de Mauprat’s assassin, and that his name 
is Antoine de Mauprat.” 

That revelation caused excitement among the 
assembly. All eyes sought Jean de Mauprat, who 
was not to be seen, however. 

“What are your proofs?” asked the chief-justice. 

“I will tell you,” replied Patience. “Knowing 
from the inn-keeper that the two monks dined 
with him occasionally, I took up my abode in a 
hermitage in the heart of the woods, about half a 
league distant. For two days I lived on roots and 
a piece of bread brought to me from the inn, for it 
is against my principles to lodge in such a place. 
The third day the boy from the tavern came to 
tell me that the monks were about to dine. I ac- 
companied him home and concealed myself in a 


326 


MAUPRAT 


cellar near by. The door of the cellar was shaded 
by an apple tree, under whose branches the two 
men sat. I could easily see and hear them. 

“‘This must be done with,’ said Antoine, whom 
I recognized at once. ‘I am tired of it Receive 
me at the monastery or I will tell all. ’ 

“‘What can you tell that will not lead to your 
ruin?’ replied M. Jean. ‘Be sure that you will 
not set foot in the Carmelite retreat; I do not 
care to be involved in a criminal suit, for you 
would be found out there in three hours. ’ 

“‘Why, I should like to know? You make them 
believe that you are a saint. ’ 

“‘I am capable of conducting myself like a saint, 
and you act like a fool! Can you refrain from 
swearing for one hour?’ 

“‘Tell me, Nepomucene, do you expect to go 
free if I become involved in a criminal suit?’ re- 
plied the other. 

“‘Who knows?’ replied the Trappist. ‘I did 
not participate in your rash act, nor did I counsel 
anything of the kind. ’ 

“‘Ah, great Lord!’” exclaimed Antoine; “‘but 
you are very well satisfied now that it is done. You 
were always a coward, and without me you would 
never have devised any other plan than to become 
a Trappist, to ape devotion, and thus receive abso- 
lution for the past, in order to have the right of 


MAUPRAT 


227 


forcing a little money from our relatives at Sainte- 
Severe. Come, come! when Bernard is hung, the 
lovely Edmee dead, and the old man has gone to 
his grave — when we have inherited that large for- 
tune, you will think it an excellent stroke to have 
gotten rid of three at once!’ 

“‘You are mad, I say, and I shall wash my hands 
of you. When I was hidden in the secret chamber 
of the tower and heard Bernard tell his valet that 
he would give up his soul for Edmee, I whispered 
to you that there was a chance, and like a brute 
you took the matter seriously and without consult- 
ing me or awaiting a favorable moment, you com- 
mitted a deed which should be carefully weighed 
and matured!’ 

“‘A favorable moment? when could I have found 
a more favorable one! I was surprised by hunt- 
ers in the forest. I hid behind the Gazean Tower; 
I saw the two turtle-doves arrive; I heard their 
conversation, and saw Bernard rush away like a 
madman. I found upon me — God knows how it 
came there — a loaded pistol. Paf — ! ’ 

“‘Be silent, you beast!’ said the other in affright; 
‘should one speak of such things in a place like 
this? Hold your tongue, or I will never see you 
again!’ 

“‘You would have to see me, my sweet brother, 
were I to ring at the Carmelite’s door!’ 


228 


MAUPRAT 


“‘If you come there, I will denounce you!’ 

“‘No, you will not, for I know too much about 
you. ’ 

“‘I do not fear you, for I have expiated my sins. ’ 

“‘Hypocrite! ’ 

“‘Come, be silent,’ said the other; ‘I must leave 
you. Here is some money. ’ 

“‘ All that!' 

“‘What has a monk to give? do you think I am 
rich?’ 

“‘Your Carmelites are, and you can do what you 
like with them. ’ 

“Then he launched all manner of invectives at the 
prelate and his brother monks. 

“The real Trappist tried to persuade the impostor 
to leave the country, but the latter was determined 
to remain; for, he said, were he not there, his broth- 
er would have the fortune all to himself. Then 
they separated. 

“I came from my hiding-place and proceeded on 
my way to have the murderer arrested. At that 
moment the marshal, who had been on my trail 
for some time in order to force me to give evidence, 
seized me by the collar. I pointed out the monk 
in vain as Edmee’s assassin; they would not listen 
to me, and replied that they had no warrant for his 
arrest. They would not let me explain, but dragged 
me hither like a deserter, and for a week I have been 


MAUPRAT 


229 


in a cell, not daring to make myself heard. I could 
not even see M. Bernard’s lawyer, to let him know 
that I was confined in prison. I do not know if 
this is law — but I am certain that the assassin 
should have been arrested and was not, and that 
he will not be if you do not gain possession of M. 
Jean de Mauprat’s person, that he may not warn 
him. 

“I swear that what I heard M. Jean de Mauprat 
say was free from all suspicion of complicity. As 
far as the act of allowing an innocent man to be 
delivered up to the penalties of the law, to suffer 
for the guilty, is concerned, that remains for you, 
sirs, and not for me, to decide upon.” 


230 


MAUPRAT 


XXVIII 

After that important testimony the court ad- 
journed for a few moments, and when they returned 
Edmee was before them. Pale and weak, scarcely 
able to walk to the arm-chair placed for her, she 
however showed great presence of mind. 

“Can you answer the questions put to you calmly 
and without any difficulty?” 

“I hope so, sir,” she replied. “It is true that 
I have just recovered from a serious illness, and 
have for only a few days been able to exercise my 
memory; but I know I shall be able to reply with- 
out any trouble.” 

“Your name?” 

“Solange-Edmonde de Mauprat.” 

“Your age, Mademoiselle?” 

“Twenty-four.” 

“Are you related to the accused?” 

“He is my cousin and my father’s nephew.” 

“Do you swear to speak the truth, the whole 
truth?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Raise your hand.” 


MAUPRAT 


231 


Edmee turned to Arthur with a mournful smile; 
he drew off her glove and helped her to raise her 
hand. I felt the tears course down my cheeks. 

She then related the facts simply as they were, 
adding that it was impossible for her to say whence 
the shot came. 

“I am the last person indeed to explain the ac- 
cident. I can only attribute it to the unskillfulness 
of one of the huntsmen, who dared not own it — 
The laws are so severe and the truth is difficult to 
prove!” 

“ Then, # Mademoiselle, you do not think that your 
cousin was the author of that deed?” 

“No, sir; certainly not! I am not delirious; 
I should not have appeared before you had I 
been.” 

“You seem to impute the revelations you made 
to mental aberration.” 

“I made no revelations. What revelation could 
I have made of a fact of which I know nothing?” 

“But you said, as you fell from your horse, 
‘Bernard, Bernard, I did not think you capable of 
killing me! ’” 

“I do not remember having said that; and if I 
did, I do not s # ee what importance could be at- 
tached to the remarks of a person whose mind is 
wandering. I know that Bernard de Mauprat 
would give his life for my father and me, and it is 


m 


MAUPRAT 


therefore not probable that he would wish to kill 
me — for what reasons?” 

The chief-justice, in order to confuse her if pos- 
sible, brought forth all of Mile. Leblanc’s argu- 
ments. Then she bravely defended my character. 
She was questioned as to her rupture with M. de 
la Marche, her frequent quarrels with me, my ab- 
rupt departure for America, her refusal to marry. 

“This examination is very unpleasant,” said she; 
“and I declare to you that if my life, not that of 
another, were at stake, you could not force from 
me another word. Learn, then, since you compel 
me to make, a declaration contrary to my pride 
and maidenly reserve, that all that seems inexpli- 
cable to you in my conduct, all that you attribute 
to Bernard — his wrongs and my resentment, his 
menaces and my fears — is explained in these words: 
I love him!” 

As she uttered those words proudly and passion- 
ately, Edmee reseated herself and covered her face 
with her hands. 

I was carried away to such an extent by my feel- 
ings that I could not refrain from crying: 

“Were I to be led to the scaffold at this moment, 
I should be the happiest man on e^rth!” 

“To the scaffold! You?” cried Edmee, rising; 
“they shall take me first! Was it your fault that 
I concealed my love from you? You have paid 


MAUPRAT 


238 


dearly for my ambition, which has led you to the 
criminal’s dock. But I will make reparation; 
should they lead you to the gallows to-morrow, 
you should go there bearing the title of my hus- 
band!” 

“Your generosity goes too far, Edmee de Mau- 
prat,” said the justice; “you only accuse yourself of 
coquetry and obduracy to save your relative! How 
do you account for your refusal to marry him, of 
seven years’ duration, which excited this young 
man’s passion?” 

“Perhaps, sir,” said Edmee, maliciously, “the 
court is not a competent judge of such a matter! 
Many women think that a little coquetry practiced 
upon the beloved one is no great sin. It is true, 
however, that if that coquetry would result in the 
condemnation of a lover, it should be corrected at 
once.” 

Here Edmee burst into tears; if she had not 
helped me by her confession, she had at least ex- 
cited interest in my favor. Edmee was further 
interrogated, and corrected Mile. Leblanc’s exag- 
gerations; she generously charged herself with all 
my wrongs. Alluding.to the letter found upon her, 
she said: 

“That was no threatening letter; it inspired me, 
as you see, with so little fear and aversion that it 
was found next my heart.” 


234 


MAUPRAT 


“But you have not explained why, during the first 
years of your cousin’s stay at your castle, you placed 
a dagger under your pillow.” 

She blushed as she replied: 

“It is true that several times I entertained 
thoughts of suicide because I felt within me a grow- 
ing love for my cousin. Believing myself indissolu- 
bly bound to M. de la Marche, I would have died 
sooner than break my word, and rather than mar- 
ry any other than Bernard! Later on, M. de la 
Marche freed me with much delicacy from my prom- 
ise, and I no longer thought of death.” 

Edmee retired amid murmurs of approbation. 

The case was postponed until the discovery and 
arrest of the assassin. The intendant of the 
province declared himself the champion of my 
cause and Edmee’s cavalier. He started out the 
marshal’s staff; they arrested Jean de Mauprat, 
who, when he found himself in danger, betrayed 
his brother and said he could be found at night at 
Roche-Mauprat, concealed in a secret chamber. 
The Trappist was conducted thither that he might 
point out the door which had baffled Mafcasse; it 
was opened — no one was there. The tower was 
surrounded by soldiers — all its means of egress 
were well guarded. The bailiff did not comprehend 
our mission, but his wife’s uneasiness confirmed 
our opinion of Antoine’s presence within the tower. 



m ' ■* 5 J& >> :• I 

























































. 

















































































MAUPRAT 


235 


The ruins must be explored. A tower separated 
from the other buildings seemed to offer a refuge; 
the means of reaching it by the staircase had been 
destroyed by fire, and no ladder was long enough. 

“A means must be found,” said Marcasse. “I 
have one.” 

He climbed a beam blackened by fire, which con- 
nected the tower with the adjoining building. In 
its side was a large aperture. In his explorations 
Marcasse remembered having seen the steps of a 
small staircase through this aperture; though the 
beam had been rendered somewhat unsafe by fire 
and Marcasse had never ventured upon it, when 
the moment presented itself he did not hesitate. 
Had I known of his intentions, I should have for- 
bidden him to run the risk. Imagine my feelings 
on seeing my faithful friend walking gravely across 
the beam in mid-air toward his goal, with Blaireau 
in front of him. I could not suppress a cry of fear 
when two shots issued from the tower. Marcasse’s 
hat fell at the first; the second grazed his shoulder. 
He halted. 

“I am not hurt!” he called to us; and continuing 
on his way, he entered the tower, crying: 

“Follow me, my friends; the beam is safe!” 

He was immediately followed by the five bold 
men who had accompanied him. When the fore- 
most entered the loft into which Antoine de Mau- 


236 


MAUPRAT 


prat had retreated he found him struggling with 
Marcasse, who, elated with his triumph and forget- 
ting that his object was not to kill but to capture, 
had unsheathed his sword in order to run the man 
through as he would a weasel. But the false monk 
proved a formidable rival. He wrested the sword 
from the sergeant’s hand, threw him to the ground, 
and would have strangled him had not some one 
fallen upon him from behind. He offered a desper- 
ate resistance, but the five men succeeded in sub- 
duing him. I threw myself into my faithful fol- 
lower’s arms. 

“It was nothing,” said he; “it has amused me. 
I have found out that I still have a sure foot and a 
cool head.” 


MAUPRAT 


237 


XXIX 

Antoine, who always exhibited great bravado in 
his speech, was a coward when it came to action; 
he no sooner found himself in the hands of the law 
than he confessed all. The two brothers accused 
each other of infamy. The Trappist coldly aban- 
doned the murderer to his fate, and denied having 
advised him to commit the crime. The other, in his 
despair, accused him of the most horrible deeds — 
of having poisoned both my mother and Edmee’s; 
he was, he said, an adept at preparing poisons and 
mixing them with food. At the time that Edmee 
was at Roche-Mauprat, they had decided to get 
rid of her and me at one stroke, and Jean was con- 
cocting the dose when the marshal attacked the 
tower. 

Jean denied those accusations; and as nothing 
could be proven, he was merely sent back to La 
Trappe, and ordered by the Archbishop never to 
set foot in the diocese and never to leave his mon- 
astery. He died there several years later. 

I was no sooner acquitted than I hastened to 
Edmee’s side, and arrived in time to be present at 


238 


MAUPRAT 


my uncle’s death-bed. He recognized me, pressed 
me to his bosom, blessed me, and placed his daugh- 
ter’s hand in mine. 

After his death we left the country for a time, 
in order not to witness Antoine’s execution. Mile. 
Leblanc, who could not be prosecuted for perjury, 
spent the remainder of her days in another prov- 
ince. 

We could not separate at once from our friends, 
my sole defenders, Marcasse, Patience, Arthur, and 
Abbe Aubert. We all entered the same railway 
carriage as one family. We visited Switzerland, 
which journey Arthur considered necessary to the 
complete re-establishment of Edmee’s health. 


MAUPRAT 


239 


XXX 

At the expiration of Edmee’s term of mourning, 
we returned to Sainte-Severe with great joy. Ed- 
mee’s first act was to gather the choicest flowers 
in the garden and lay them on her father’s grave; 
we then together made a vow to leave behind us a 
name as honored and noble as his. 

Our marriage was celebrated privately in the vil- 
lage chapel. No one but Arthur, the priest, Mar- 
casse, and Patience assisted at our modest banquet. 
What need had we of strange witnesses of our 
bliss? We were happy and joyous among our- 
selves. 

Patience returned to his cottage and refused to 
give up his secluded life. Marcasse remained with 
me until his death, toward the close of the French 
Revolution. 

Arthur, who had given up to us a whole year, 
could not determine to leave entirely his country 
and his work. He returned to Philadelphia, where 
I visited him, after my wife’s death. 

I will not tell you how happy my life was with 
her. She bore me six children, four of whom are 
l6 


240 


M A UP RAT 


still living and are a credit to their family. I have 
lived for them, as my wife requested me to. She 
was the only woman I ever loved. I am thus con- 
stituted: those whom I love I love forever — in the 
past, present, and future. 

“Those are all the incidents of my life,” said old 
Mauprat, “in which Edmee played a part. If there 
be anything beneficial in my story, profit by it, 
young people. Seek to have a frank counselor, a 
severe friend; and love not him who flatters, but 
him who corrects you. Do not believe too much 
in Physiognomy or in Fatality — at least never ex- 
hort any one to abandon himself to the latter. 
That is the moral of my story.” 

After that advice supper was served and we chat- 
ted the remainder of the evening. We asked Ber- 
nard to develop more fully what he called “the moral 
of his story;” he then advanced general principles, 
the wisdom and purity of which impressed us. 

“I spoke of Physiognomy,” said he, “not to criti- 
cize a science which has its good side. I used the 
word because the only Fatality which is believed in, 
in our days, is that which our instincts create in us. 
I do not think that Physiognomy treats of Fatality 
more than any other science of that kind, and La- 


MAUPRAT 


241 


vater, accused of Fatalism, is to my mind a more 
Christian man than the Gospel ever presented. 

“What I tell you is perhaps not very orthodox, 
but it is true. Man is not born wicked; man is born 
with more or less passions, with more or less power 
to satisfy them, with more or less aptitude for tak- 
ing a good or bad position in the world; but Ed- 
ucation can and should prove the remedy for all. 
This is the great problem to solve — it is to find the 
education suitable to each individual. General ed- 
ucation seems necessary — does it follow that it 
should be the same for all? I think that if I had 
been to school at ten years of age I would have 
been tamed sooner; but would they have suppressed 
my violent passions and helped me to conquer them 
as Edmee has? I doubt it. Every one must be 
loved in order to accomplish anything, but they 
must be loved in different ways; one with indefat- 
igable indulgence, another with severity. 

“My reply to the question of how to solve the 
problem of a common education for all, yet suited 
to each individual, is for one to correct the other, 
and one to love the other. Thus influencing laws 
by morals, you will conquer the most odious and 
impious of all, the law of retaliation, which is sim- 
ply a principle of Fatality, since it assumes that 
the guilty are incorrigible and Heaven implacable.” 

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